Red Feathers
by ClockworkAssassin
Summary: Kayla Giordano is a Templar in the making, raised for greatness by her powerful father; Boris Torvald is a prisoner to his heritage, tempered like steel by his militant Assassin uncle. Neither knows their true place, and both fear the great war of which they are reluctant heirs – until their paths cross, and thrust them into a world they never imagined. Modern!AU
1. Blood and Smoke

The trail of red droplets wound through the snow like beads on a string, each one gleaming bright, bloody crimson against the white drifts. Boris's boots crunched through the ice as he tracked the thin scarlet thread, following it over the great helves of snow, across the frozen pond and into the woods; his breath fogged in the frigid morning air as he stepped over branches and twigs, each heavy footfall spooking birds in the trees overhead as he pursued the trail that would have been invisible to anyone else, but stood out starkly in his vision, like splashes of paint on a blank canvas. It was fresh, the vivid red of well-aged wine, and that meant whoever had made it wasn't far away.

An animal, surely. But his sixth sense still tingled. The last time he'd seen something like this…

He was being paranoid again, of course. That was a long time ago. Besides, now he had his ever-faithful hunting companion – the long-handled axe that dangled from his right hand, silver and glowing in the winter sunlight; it was wickedly pointed, designed to smash and pierce, a weapon in every right. Only the most inexperienced woodcutter would mistake it for a workman's tool, but if the fierce design wasn't enough, the rusty speckles on the blade spoke of desperate battles long past. It gave him a threatening, medieval look, like a knight in thick-furred armor, and provided a measure of safety that eased his anxiety in places like this, places that reminded him of that day not so long ago. But that time was gone, and no knight would have been able to replicate his agility as he vaulted nimbly over a snowdrift, darted across a fallen tree, made his careful way down a steep hill, navigating the frozen landscape with a grim, focused energy. All the while, he kept the axe close, counting on its icy steel to protect him from whatever lay ahead. If it should be the enemy…

He ducked under the reaching claws of a maple tree and, at last, saw the trail of droplets widen and stutter out – the source was close. He tightened his grip on his axe as he peered between the trees, searching the winter landscape, ready for someone to burst out of the underbrush – but then his eyes slid down to a hollow in the trees, and he realized he hadn't been following an enemy at all. Or, for that matter, a person.

It was a dog, a big grey husky, nestled in between two dead trees and shivering hopelessly in the cold. At first Boris wondered if it was an attack dog, and the blood trail was from a fresh kill; but then he saw the gore slicked across its dark grey fur, and the black-feathered arrow jutting from its left leg, beads of blood oozing silently down the shaft. The dog looked up at him and whined pitifully, ears flattening. It was obviously in pain.

In that moment, it didn't matter how hardened and tough Boris thought he was; when confronted with any animal in such a pitiful state, there was only one option. Boris dropped to his knees, hastily setting down the axe. He held out a hand, and the dog sniffed it experimentally, then permitted him to ruffle its ears; he pet it for a while, to reassure it he wasn't a threat (obviously this was the only reason, and not because its fur was soft and fluffy), before studying the arrow. It looked like a hunter's shot, perhaps a glancing blow meant for an animal the dog had been chasing. But Boris couldn't fathom why the shooter would have left the poor beast to die, alone and suffering in the cold. Who could be so cruel?

Whatever the case, there was no way he could leave it here – his conscience wouldn't allow it. He slung his axe across his back, then slid his arms under the dog; it yelped in alarm, struggling and kicking his arms as he lifted it into the air. Then it calmed down, sniffing him curiously as he carried it out of the woods like an infant. Its nose was wet as it pressed its snout into his palm, seeking attention; he fluffed up its ears, forcing himself not to smile as it licked his hand. He was only taking it back to the cabin to patch it up and find a new home for it, that was all. His uncle would never allow him to have a pet.

The axe clinked on his back as he navigated the thick hills of snow towards home, his fur jacket and hiking boots outlined in the harsh morning sunlight. It was cold here, as it always was, and the only animals visible in the trees were the ever-present crows and ravens, hissing and squawking as he ducked under branches and picked his slow way towards the rising smoke in the distance; another clue that would have been lost on someone without sharp eyes, as it blended in nicely with the muddy grey of the clouds. Boris craned his neck, estimating the distance –

"Put the dog down."

Boris stopped in his tracks. The voice had come from the woods behind him, the sharp syllables of the local Russian dialect; as if on cue, the dog whimpered, nuzzling his hand fearfully. Whoever had just spoken, his new friend didn't like them much.

"It's hurt," he said, matching their Russian with his. "I'm taking it to be cared for."

"Put it down."

Boris turned, scanning the woods for the speaker. He only saw a dim shadow between the branches, but he knew the voice; his grip tightened unconsciously on the dog's fur. "No," he said. "I'm not leaving it to die."

"And if it had been bait for an ambush?"

"Then I would have dealt with it."

"Don't be a fool, Boris." His uncle stepped out from the shadows, a hunting crossbow slung over his back. "You would have been dead the moment you put down that axe."

"Uncle –"

"Quiet." His uncle's beetle-black eyes studied him coldly. It was a familiar look; Boris had seen it almost every day for twenty-two years now. He saw it each time he slipped up during training, butchered a move, lost his footing; he saw it when he forgot something from his lessons, or couldn't remember a name; he saw it when he put baby birds back in trees and tended to wounded deer. It was a look of utter disappointment. "Repeat after me. I will never let emotions compromise the mission."

Boris looked at his boots. "It wasn't an ambush. I wasn't in danger –"

"Say it."

"I will never let emotions compromise the mission," he said dully.

"And why is that?"

"Because the enemy plays on our emotions."

"And what does that lead to?"

Boris stared at his shoes.

" _What does it lead to_?"

"Death," he mumbled.

"Good. Now set the dog down."

He lowered the squirming dog to the snow. "It's going to die, Uncle."

"And why do you care? It's not part of the mission. It's none of your concern."

Boris stared down at the dog. It gazed back at him with those bright blue eyes, whimpering quietly. In that moment, a terrible possibility occurred to him. His uncle's crossbow… "Did you shoot it?"

"Why do you care?"

"Did you hurt it just to test me?" He met his uncle's eyes, trying to be strong even as his heart threw itself against the back of his throat. It couldn't be true. "Why?"

"Because you're soft." His uncle stared back at him, his expression as cold and unreadable as the snow. "You're soft, and soft people are the first ones to die. That's how war is. The Templars will have no mercy on you. If I don't harden you now, the Templars will, and let me assure you now, Boris – you don't want that."

"But we're not fighting a war."

" _Yes we are_!" His uncle's bark made Boris jump. "We've been fighting a war all our lives, boy, and someday you'll be a part of it whether you like it or not. You might as well accept your fate, because if you don't, you'll end up like that poor beast at your feet, now won't you?"

Boris looked at the dog, and felt his heart well over. The look in its eyes as it gazed up at him, the utter trust and love and helpless devotion, was too much to bear. "Uncle, don't make me leave it here."

"You're not going to leave it."

Boris's heart lifted. _Oh, thank God_.

"You're going to kill it."

And his heart fell into his feet.

 _Oh, no. Oh, please, don't make me_.

"I – Uncle, I can't –"

"Yes you can." His uncle moved forward, taking the axe off Boris's back. He held it out to Boris, the blade gleaming in the sun. "Come on now, make it quick. I'm getting snow in my boots."

"I – no –"

"Take it, Boris."

Boris took it. His hands shook as he gripped the axe tightly, fingers clenching on the well-worn handle; suddenly it seemed a thousand pounds heavier, the head weighed down like concrete.

"Raise it, Boris. You know how it's done."

He lifted the axe above his head, shaking violently. He couldn't do it. "Don't make me." It came out pitiful, pleading. "Please don't make me."

"Do it, Boris." His uncle watched him, eyes glittering. "Be a man. This is what men do."

And then it came, the ultimatum, the last word of any argument:

"This is what _Assassins_ do."

For one moment, Boris Torvald tried to steel himself, hands tightening on the axe handle. _Be an Assassin_ , he told himself, but his heart screamed. _Be an Assassin. You can do it, just one stroke and it's all over. You're going to have to kill people someday, killing a dog should be no problem._

 _But this isn't what real Assassins do_ , a voice murmured in his head. _Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent, isn't that what your mother taught you when you were a little boy_?

With great effort, he pushed that voice aside. His uncle was an Assassin, and that meant he knew their tenets inside and out. If he said this was right, then it was. This was right. This was what he had to do.

The dog looked up at him, whining in terror; it tried to rise, but fell down again, whimpering. It stared up at him as he readied his axe, blue eyes drilling into his, begging for its life – and in an instant, all his icy resolve fled.

He dropped the axe and backed away, trembling all over. "I can't do it. I'm not – I'm not a killer. I'm sorry."

"You damn fool." His uncle calmly picked up the weapon, brushing snow off the blade. "I shouldn't have believed in you all these years. I took you in because I thought I could make something out of you – I thought I could make an Assassin out of you, an Assassin who could live up to your parents' greatness." He spat in the snow. "But I see now that was a mistake. You don't have what it takes to be the heir to your family's legacy, no more than this dog does. Do you understand, Boris? Do you know what that means?"

"Uncle, I –"

"It means you don't deserve to call yourself an Assassin. And that makes you the enemy. That makes you one of them."

"I'm not a Templar, Uncle." He knew he sounded pathetic, but he had to try. "I want to fight them. Really."

"Oh, you want to fight? The little boy wants to be a man now? Then watch how a real Assassin kills." And with one quick, smooth motion, his uncle reared the axe over his head and swung it down.

Boris didn't know what came over him. Maybe it was a sudden rush of desperate, reckless courage, knowing now that he had nothing to lose; maybe it was a burst of strength as he realized that a helpless creature was about to be killed before his eyes. Whatever it was, it made his limbs lunge forward almost against his will, his body shooting from the snow like a bullet to dive at his uncle and tackle him into a drift in a burst of white fluff. The axe went flying off into the wilderness, the blade still clean; the dog set up a howling of alarm and tried to scramble to its feet, frightened but very much alive. Somehow, miraculously, he had saved its life.

Boris lay stunned on top of his uncle for a moment, panting, his breath fogging in the freezing air. He had never moved that fast, not even in training. How had he done that?

"You." His uncle's voice issued from the snow beneath him, and for a moment Boris was startled; his tone was almost wondering. "You…"

And then, to his dismay, it filled again with rage. "You little _piece of shit_!"

Boris flew to his feet, scrambling to find his axe; but, unable to find any trace, he scooped up the dog instead and took off running, pounding into the wilderness and leaving his shouting uncle behind. It was all he could think of, to get away as fast as he could – his uncle was not kind in his usual mood, and his anger was volcanic. The only comfort was that the dog was safe, happily lolling in Boris's arms and licking his hand contentedly; he was surprised it was so cheerful, given that its leg was still gently dripping blood into the snow, but apparently the joy of being rescued outweighed the pain from its injury. At least it was still alive.

Behind him, his uncle's voice rang through the trees: "You'll be back, Boris! And I'll make sure you regret this!"

He didn't plan on going back there, not for a long time. Boris slowed down, gasping, to catch his breath; his throat burned like acid in the cold air, and his lungs were on fire. The dog, however, was having the time of its life, merrily slapping its tail against his chest as it beamed up at him. "At least you're all right," he said, ruffling its ears. "Don't worry, I know somewhere we can go. You're safe now."

The dog licked his fingers, fluffy tail wagging.

"I don't know what you were called before, but I suppose you'll need a new name. How about Baron?" Boris gently lifted the dog, checking its underparts. "Oh – my mistake. Let's call you Lady, then, shall we?"

Lady barked happily.

"Well, that's settled." Boris hugged the dog gently as he stepped through the snow, following a new trail; he was heading to the one safe place he knew, the one place his uncle, in all his apparent omniscience, had never found. He could thank God for that. The man already had enough reasons to hate him, and if he ever discovered this… well, it wouldn't be a dog getting the axe that time.

 _But he won't find out, will he?_ Boris stroked Lady's ears. _We're never going back, you and I. We'll just have to figure it out._

He had tried to escape from his uncle before. Whenever they had a particularly nasty fight, or some terrible encounter like this one, he left the cabin, promising himself it would be for good this time; he went into town with the intention of never going back, settled down, found a job and tried to start a life. But inevitably, his uncle arrived – sometimes a week later, sometimes a month – and, wordlessly, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to the cabin. And it was like nothing had ever happened.

 _Not this time, though_. Boris vowed it to himself. _This time he won't find me. I'll hide well this time, I'll lie as low as I know how. He won't be able to find me ever again._

He didn't care about any of it. Not the Assassins and Templars, not the great war, not the clash of freedom and control or the legacy his parents had left him – none of it. More than any of that, he just wanted to be left alone. But his uncle would never allow it. "You're going to be a part of this whether you like it or not," he would say, whenever Boris begged for a break day or a jaunt in the town, just the smallest escape from the constant, brutal regimen. "You can't just walk away. The Templars knew your parents, and they weren't happy to learn they had a son. The only reason you're alive now is because I'm hiding you here, but I can't do that forever, and if you ever venture too far away from me you'll be killed faster than you can say _freedom_. Once they figure out where you are, they will come after you, and you'll have to be ready. You're a Torvald, and you'll never be allowed to forget it."

He hadn't forgotten. Besides, after all of that tempering and training and bruising and bleeding, he was ready now. He could fight, even if he couldn't yet bring himself to kill. Wasn't that enough?

He stepped down from a snowdrift, and there it was; the familiar dirt road, barely visible as it cut its unsteady way through the snow. He followed it, toting the dog along and wondering how he was going to explain himself this time. This place he was going to now, this secret little part of his world – it was the only thing in his life that his uncle had never touched, and he wanted so badly to keep it that way. It was his one secret, the one thing he had managed to keep hidden all this time. He needed to be careful. When his uncle came around looking for him, as he always did, he would need to take precautions. He would find a better forger, pick a more indiscreet name, change his clothes, his accent, his eyes…

The house came into view, cradled between an oak tree and a rusty red pickup truck half-buried in the snow; it was a comforting sight, and seeing everything just the way he remembered it made the anxiety fade away, to be replaced by longing. It had been so long since he'd let himself visit here, so afraid was he of his uncle finding out. What would be waiting for him behind that door? Surely not joy, surely anger or frustration or pain. He braced himself for the worst as he stepped up onto the familiar welcome mat with its singing bluebirds, brushing the snow and mud off his boots. Anything could happen now, anything at all, and none of it good.

But when he knocked gently on the door, and hovered there on the doorstep clutching the dog to himself like a shield, it only took one second before it flew open like a shot.

"Boris!" An almond-skinned man stood in the doorway, beaming radiantly, every inch of his face alight with happiness; in that moment he could have lit the whole of Russia, and have a little left for Siberia. "You sly bastard, I thought you had left for good this time. Do you know how worried I was? I almost tore apart the block looking for you."

"Yosof." Boris nearly dropped the dog in his relief. "Yosof, you have no idea how happy I am to see you. I was so worried –"

"Shh. Not here. Inside." Yosof waved him into a small, cramped kitchen, closing the door behind him. "How are you? Did he hurt you? Tell me you're all right."

"I'm fine. Just bruises again." Boris patted the dog. "And this."

"I was about to ask." Yosof chuckled, surveying the cheerily panting dog in Boris's arms. "Have you brought a little stray home?"

"My uncle shot her, then tried to get me to finish her off. I couldn't bring myself to do it." Boris gently set Lady down on the kitchen floor. "She's got an arrow in her leg, I was hoping you could –"

"Of course." Yosof rushed to fetch medical supplies. "It's good to see you again, Boris. Despite the circumstances."

"I'm just glad you're all right. You know I worry about you." Boris watched as Yosof pulled out the arrow and quickly began dabbing the dog's leg with alcohol, staunching the bleeding. "Yosof, you already know what I'm going to say."

"Yes, I do." The man wrapped Lady's leg in clean linens. "You ran away from your uncle again."

"Forever this time."

"Mm-hm." Yosof didn't sound convinced. "You said that the last eight times."

"I know, but – I can't forgive him this time. I can't just pretend this didn't happen."

"But you will, eventually." Yosof secured the bandage, then smiled tiredly at Boris. "I've accepted it, now. I know that you won't stay here with me."

"Can't. Not won't."

"If you say so."

"It's only because of him, Yosof, you know that. We've talked about this. If he wasn't in the picture –"

"The same excuses, too." Yosof washed his bloodstained hands in the sink. "You really haven't changed, have you?"

Boris looked at him hopelessly. "Yosof, I wish things were different. I really do."

"I know." Yosof dried off his hands, then leaned down to stroke Lady's fur. The dog's tongue lolled out happily. "Are you going to keep the dog?"

"Well, I don't know anyone else who can take care of her, and I'm not sure where my uncle got her from in the first place." Boris smiled slightly. "And I did always want a dog."

"Problem solved, then." Yosof gently rested a hand on Boris's shoulder. "Come on, Boris. We have some catching up to do."

"You mean we're still…?"

"Of course we are. I could never stay mad at you." Yosof rested his forehead against Boris's. "As much as I want to throw you into a snowdrift sometimes."

"Well, at least you're honest."

"Mm." Yosof slipped his slender fingers into Boris's thick, calloused mitts; it was obvious from their hands alone who was the watchmaker and who was the hardened Assassin-in-training. "When you're here, that is. Which isn't very often."

"Such loving words." Boris closed his eyes, his soul calmed by Yosof's presence; even after everything that had happened today, he could relax now that he knew his secret was safe. His perfect, beautiful secret. "I missed you, darling."

"I missed you more." Yosof kissed his cheek, dragonfly-soft. "You haven't shaved in a while, have you?"

"Always have to nitpick, don't you." Boris held his hands tightly, needing to feel his warmth; a part of him still didn't quite believe he was real. "We have so much to talk about."

"Later, darling. Later." Yosof nuzzled his nose fondly. "I only want you right now."

They kissed in the morning sun, leaning against each other, delighting in their forbidden togetherness after so long apart. Despite the gentleness of their touches, soft kisses pressed against each other's necks and quiet words shared, there was something joyfully nasty in it, a savage affection, taunting the world that could no longer harm them with their happiness – at least for now. Tomorrow would be a different story.

"I wish it could always be like this," Boris murmured, when they broke apart.

"Let's not talk about that right now." Yosof tugged on his hands. "I want to make the most of our time. In case this doesn't last forever."

"It will, darling. I promise." But both of them knew it was a lie. There would always be something keeping them apart, something that ruined their plans; whether that was Boris's uncle, or Yosof's mother, or the law, or the season, or the year. It was always something, and that would never change.

 _But at least we have today_ , Boris thought, as he poured out orange juice and arranged the table for breakfast. Yosof cracked eggs into a pan on the stove, humming cheerily; they brushed hands as they fetched silverware and hunted for ingredients, silent promises to each other. Lady was sitting up now, wobbling on her injured hind leg as she watched them move around the kitchen; clearly she sensed the possibility that food would soon appear, and her pink tongue dangled out when she heard the pan start to sizzle. "Not for you," Boris said, ruffling her ears. "Omelets aren't good for dogs."

"Oh, she can have a few bites. She's had a rough day." Yosof tossed a few scraps of bacon to the dog, and she snapped it up joyfully. "You'd want some comfort food too if someone shot you with an arrow."

"I probably would." Boris closed his eyes, his mind at peace; this was the life he always wanted. Being with Yosof, fixing the pickup truck while the watchmaker fixed his tools, making breakfast in the mornings and making love at night. This was a perfect, beautiful life, and he was cursed to never have it for long. Because his uncle would come for him tomorrow, or the day after that, and drag him right back to the Assassins and the training and the beatings that were supposed to toughen him up but only made him cry himself to sleep.

But he wouldn't think about that now. He took a swig of orange juice, then coughed. "When did you buy this? It's spoiled."

"Oh, whoops. That was the carton I mixed some vodka into." Laughing, Yosof took his glass. "Don't drink it unless you want to be tipsy by dinner."

"Why would you mix vodka into orange juice? That's horrible."

"Shockingly, some people like that combination." Yosof kissed his cheek fondly. "I know you only drink the highest quality cocktails, but some of us have to make do."

"If you count whiskey mixed with mouthwash as a cocktail, then yes, I'm living the high life."

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Have you met me?"

"I missed you joking about your crippling depression. It was getting far too cheerful in here for my taste." Yosof tossed his omelet over the fire. "Don't you think you should see someone about that?"

"About what? Living in actual hell? I don't think they can prescribe something for that."

"What is your uncle so determined to train you for, anyway?" Yosof opened a drawer and fetched a spatula. "Why does he think you're in so much danger?"

"…I don't know." Boris knew perfectly well, but there was no sense in worrying him. Not when the poor man had so much to worry about already. "Maybe he's just crazy."

"I think we've established that much."

And then Boris's sixth sense tingled. There was something, a niggling little feeling… He stiffened, casting quick looks around the kitchen. Nothing moved except Yosof and Lady.

Yosof frowned, noticing. "Everything okay?"

"Something's wrong."

"Oh no." Yosof let go of the omelet pan. "Is it your uncle? Did he find us?"

"No…" Boris massaged the back of his neck, trying to flatten the hairs down. "I don't know. I feel funny. Like something's happening."

"Should we check outside? It might just be an animal passing by –"

"It's not that." Boris opened the front door. "I'll be right back."

"Darling, wait!" Yosof hastened after him, grabbing a fireplace poker that leaned against the doorframe. "Where are you going? Take me with you."

"It might be dangerous –"

"I don't care. I'm tired of you leaving without me all the time."

Boris sighed. There was no time to argue. "Okay, but stay close to me and do whatever I say." He tugged the fireplace poker pointedly out of Yosof's hands. "And don't wave this thing around, you'll get yourself killed."

"Well, what if we get in a fight? I need something to bash skulls with."

"Here." Boris pulled a dagger out of his boot. "Take this."

"Whoa, whoa!" Yosof took it and stared at it, aghast. "Since when have you been a walking armory?"

"Since I was jumped in the woods four years ago. Now follow me and stay quiet." Boris dropped down to a crouch, his steps soundless on the snow as he crept forward. Yosof hastened to mirror him, dagger at the ready.

"What are we looking for?" he whispered.

"Trouble."

They snuck through the woods side by side, Boris silent as a ghost, Yosof stumbling and cracking twigs on occasion. Boris made a note to himself to teach the man some stealth. _They're going to hear us a forest away if we go in like this_. If his uncle had taught him anything, it was that you never underestimated –

And then he stopped. His heart grew cold in his chest. "Oh no."

"What?" Yosof stared at him, bewildered. "What is it?"

"Look." Boris pointed to the clotted grey sky, and Yosof followed his gaze, then gasped. There was no need to communicate what it was, because both of them knew, but Boris said it anyway: "Fire."

A pillar of smoke was rising in the distance, thick and dark; orange sparks flickered from a distant blaze, throwing eerie shadows over the snow. This was not a small blaze, a campfire gone awry – no. This was a bonfire, and it only took Boris one cold, horrified moment to realize what they were burning.

"Damn it to hell," he said.

"Oh, no. Don't say it."

"They're burning the cabin." He broke into a sprint, tearing through the woods like a whirlwind; Yosof bolted after him, keeping up with him easily. If there was one skill they both shared, it was knowing how to run, because they'd practiced it a thousand times. You had to be fast when there was the possibility of a mob kicking down your door on any given night, or Templars leaping through the windows. Not that Boris had informed Yosof of that second possibility.

They ripped and slashed their way through the forest, running as fast as their feet could carry them, and the gunpowder smell of smoke soon tinged the air; and then the heat grew as they neared the cabin, and beheld the apocalypse before them.

The house was in flames, blazing like a torch in the midmorning sun; Boris scanned the wreckage desperately, trying to pick out what remained, looking for any sign of the culprits. But they had long gone, judging by the scattered footprints and tire tracks stamped into the snow.

"Your uncle," Yosof said, coughing on the smoke. "Where is he?"

Boris focused hard. It wasn't always easy, but every once in a while, he'd get flickers, insights, little clues; and just as he'd sensed the cabin burning, now he sensed a presence off to his right. He leaped over the burned-out fence, picked his way through rubble, and there he was.

His uncle lay sprawled out on a pile of wreckage, still and lifeless, like a broken toy. At first Boris thought he must be dead, but then the man's head moved slightly. "Boris," he croaked.

Boris rushed to him. Much as he hated the man, much as he resented the beatings and drills and abuse, this was still his family, and he did not hesitate to crouch down in the rubble and cradle his uncle's head, pressing a hand to the bloody wound in the man's side that he knew in his heart could not be healed. "Uncle." His voice broke. "You're dying."

"Ovinkaifeck." His uncle spat out a clot of blood. "Hel Kronsky. She knew your parents. Kept your legacy safe. Find her."

"What are you talking about?"

"I trained you. I raised you to be strong. I wanted you to hate me. Too late for apologies… You're ready now." His uncle grasped Boris's wrist tightly. "Go, Boris. They're coming."

"…I will, Uncle."

His uncle sighed, and rested his head in the ashes, and moved no more.

Quietly, Boris rose. He made to dust off the ashen handprint on the sleeve of his jacket – then stopped, and let his hand fall. His heart was deeply torn; he had hated this man, despised him for keeping him prisoner here and for all his many cruelties. But his uncle had also kept him safe this long. How could you love and hate someone all at once?

Yosof came up behind him, stepping carefully over the rubble. "What do we do now?"

"We can't stay here." Boris looked at him, and felt a self-crushing love for him. "Yosof, there's a lot of things I haven't told you about me, but there isn't time now. I have to leave the country. My uncle told me where to go."

"What about the house? Our life?"

"There are people who wanted my uncle dead, and now they'll come after me. If I stay here, they'll come after you, too." Boris looked at his boots. "If you don't want to come with me… there's still time. You can still be happy, and live a normal life, and settle down somewhere nice, and find someone who makes you happy. You'll put yourself in danger if you –"

"I'm coming." Yosof squared his shoulders. "I don't know what's going on, but if running away means I can be with you, then I'm coming whether you like it or not. You can explain on the way."

"…You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." Yosof took his hand gently. "I love you, Boris. I'm staying with you. Always."

Boris shook his head. He wanted to say no, but there was no way he could look in those loving eyes and tell him to take the next train to France without him. So instead he said, "This bleeding heart of mine will get me killed one of these days."

"Not this one, I hope." Yosof tugged on his hand. "Come on. If we're leaving, we should hurry. We'll take the truck, and bring Lady with us. You just tell me where to go and we'll go there." He kissed Boris's cheek. "Together."

"Yes." Boris turned his back on the remains of the cabin, steeling himself for what lay ahead. "Together."

They left the ruins behind, hand in hand, united for the first time in a long time. There was a brief moment, when they reached the house and opened the front door, when Boris seriously considered slipping sleeping drug in Yosof's vodka-spiked orange juice and taking off in the middle of the night; and then he discarded it, because at least, if Yosof came with him, he would always know the man was safe. And that thought led him to pick up a toolbox from the garage and head outside to fix the pickup truck while Yosof darted around the house, packing their life into suitcases. It was the last time they would see the house again, and he found himself lingering over silly, small things; the pictures on the walls, the plants in the living room. It would never be like this again, he knew. Their life here, sweet though it had been, was long over.

But at least they still had each other. That, in itself, was more precious than any picture frame.

After several minutes of swearing, kicking the tires and struggling with rusty bolts, Boris finally determined that, contrary to its rusted-out appearance and general state of advanced decay, the old pickup truck still ran. It took him a few tries to get it going; at first it just sat there growling angrily, the engine turning over and over. Finally Boris got frustrated and smacked the engine with a wrench, and it roared to life. _Well, that solves one of our many problems._

"So what is this Ovinkaifeck we're looking for?" Yosof asked, helping Lady climb into the backseat. "Do you know?"

"No, but it sounds like a village, or a town. I'm sure we can find it." Boris climbed into the driver's seat and turned on the radio. "And I have a name, too. Hel Kronsky."

"Kronsky… never heard of her." Yosof leaned against the car door, grinning up at him. "You know, I was thinking I would drive."

"You thought wrong."

"Look what a loving couple we are." But Yosof clambered into the passenger's seat anyway, mock-grumbling. "What's next, you're going to make me be the navigator?"

"Search for Ovinkaifeck."

"Oh, sure. Make the half-Indian man handle the technology."

Boris grinned as he pulled out of the driveway. "Are you calling me racist?"

"Hey, you said it, not me."

"You do realize that a racist person probably wouldn't have dated you for this long."

"Maybe you're a slow-burning racist."

"Yes," Boris said, stepping on the gas; the truck barreled down the dirt road, heading west. "Because I'm definitely a slow-burning, gay racist."

"Hey, you never know." Yosof tapped at the screen of his phone. "Okay, all I get for Ovinkaifeck is some farm about six hours from here. That doesn't seem right."

"Well, it's our only lead. And it's not that far away."

"Six hours isn't far?"

"Do you have any better ideas?"

Yosof sighed. "Maybe I would if you explained what's going on."

"I might as well, since you're involved now." Boris watched the trees slide by out the window. "Against my better judgment, of course."

"Naturally." Yosof reached over and started to massage his shoulders, working out the knots. "So who was your uncle, really? Let's start there."

"My uncle's name is – was – Mir Torvald. He was part of an Assassin death squad –"

"A what now?"

"Okay, backing up even further." Boris took a slow breath, arranging his thoughts. "The Assassin Order is an ancient group of freedom fighters, dating back centuries. They have special powers, like a sixth sense called Eagle Vision, incredible speed and agility, strength. They use concealed blades, stealth and blending abilities to make kills, assassinating tyrants and people who abuse their power. They use their own powers to fight for humanity's free will and independence from tyranny."

"So… good guys?"

"Let me finish." Boris turned left, the truck's tires clattering on the road. "Their sworn enemies are the Knights Templar, a similarly ancient group dedicated to bettering humanity through control and the removal of free will. They try to gather artifacts of power to further that cause. The Assassins get them solely to keep them out of Templar hands, because in those hands they are infinitely dangerous."

"Bad guys. Got it." Yosof frowned. "So why was your uncle so awful to you, if he was one of the freedom fighters? One of the Assassins?"

"Like I said, he was part of a death squad. Elite Assassins, trusted with high-level kills. And one day, he was given the chance to take out a very powerful target."

"Which was?"

"I don't know, and he never told me. All I know is that he failed, and got his entire squad killed in the process. He was exiled from the Assassins as a result. But he was my father's brother, and my father always felt bad about the decision, so he convinced a mentor to send a few novices his way. That way my uncle could still be involved in the Assassins, at least peripherally, by training recruits and passing on his skills. And it worked out for a while."

"Until?"

"Until my parents were killed at the hands of Templars."

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. You always said it was a car crash."

"Yes, well. I say a lot of things."

"So all that training your uncle gave you…"

"He lost his novices after my father's death, and the Order itself went very incognito – I'll tell you why in a minute. With nowhere else to turn, and no other purpose left for him, he turned his training skills on the only promising novice he had left – his brother's son. Me. He raised me to be an Assassin after my parents died, because he wanted me to follow in their footsteps."

"And who were your parents?"

Boris closed his eyes, marshaling his words carefully. "Two of the greatest Master Assassins the world has ever known, who had the misfortune to fall in love."

Yosof watched him thoughtfully. "If anyone else told me a story like this, I would laugh in their face. But I know you're not kidding."

"At least you don't think I'm crazy. That's a good start." Boris rested his forehead on the steering wheel, exhausted in a way he couldn't explain. "Yosof, I'm running from the Templars. They know my last name, and they're determined to kill me so I can't do what my parents did before they died. Bring the Knights Templar to their knees."

"…And are you going to?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you going to become an Assassin, and fight them like your parents did?" Yosof looked at him eagerly. "Rise to the rank of Master, turn the tide of war?"

Boris stared at the steering wheel. "No."

"Why not? They're trying to kill you – us, now – and you have the training to fight back against them. You can stop them from hurting other people the way they hurt your uncle."

"No." Boris stepped hard on the gas. "I won't."

"Then why are we going to Ovinkaifeck? Why do any of this?"

"I'm going to see if Hel Kronsky really knew my parents, and can give me anything that was theirs. Not to become an Assassin, or fight in this war, or any of it."

Yosof reached out and tucked hair behind his ear tenderly. "I don't want to make you do anything, Boris. If it were up to me, I'd do just what we were planning all along – run away, buy a house somewhere, and live together forever. But it sounds like the world needs you. You can't ignore that call."

"I can, and I will." Boris set his jaw. "I've listened to my uncle long enough, I've let him boss me around. No one will ever have that power over me, ever again."

Yosof kissed his ear. "You're cute when you're fired up."

"Stop it. I'm not cute."

"Yes you are."

"I am the night. I am darkness. Fear me."

"You're _adorable_ ," Yosof teased, as Boris glared at him. "You're just a big cuddly teddy bear with emotional problems and daddy issues."

"I do not have –"

"I _looove_ you." Yosof snuggled up against him contentedly. "You scary Assassin, you."

"If you don't stop cuddling me I'm going to smash this car into a tree."

"My big strong Assassin." Yosof closed his eyes. "And now you can't ever leave me, because you have to keep me safe from the Templars. See how I've got you cornered?"

"I hate myself and you." But Boris kissed his hair fondly. "I love you too, darling. Now stop distracting me and let me drive."

"Does that mean you're going to think about it?"

"Being an Assassin?" Boris sighed. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, _maybe_ is better than _no_." Yosof closed his eyes. "Mind if I use you as a pillow?"

"Yes, I do mind."

Yosof fell asleep on his shoulder anyway, and Boris idly ran a hand through his hair as he drove, thinking about Assassins and Templars and destinies and danger. Was he really ready for this? He'd spent all his life running from this war, trying to change his last name and hide himself and Yosof away, but now it was impossible to ignore. The Templars were coming for him now – he couldn't just brush them away. What did that mean for him?

 _I'll see Hel Kronsky_ , he decided. _I'll hear her out. But I'm not promising anything beyond that. The moment I get the Templars off my tail, I'm finished with all of this. I'll never get involved with it again._

And yet the gentle warmth of Yosof's head on his shoulder, their hands twined together on the dashboard, made him remember what it was he was fighting for.


	2. Copper and Steel

Boris wasn't sure what he had been expecting from Ovinkaifeck. Maybe some mystical monastery where Assassins bled and battled in the shadows, disguised as a family farm to hide the war that raged within; or maybe a tucked-away hideout lined with traps, deterring the unwary Templar from a treasure trove of Assassin knowledge and history. Whatever the case, he certainly hadn't been expecting what they saw when they pulled into the driveway.

He killed the ignition, checked to make sure Lady was in her seat, and then they both sat and stared out the windshield for a long time, gathering their thoughts.

Yosof was the first to voice his surprise. "Is this it?"

Before them sprawled a dead, tangled husk of a farm, obviously abandoned long ago and beaten down by the elements until little was left but skeletons. The lone farmhouse in its center, the sole intact building on the property, sagged in on itself, like a house of cards weighed down by a stone, and the fields were overgrown with poison ivy and muck; it looked like a scene from a bland news report on a rural chainsaw massacre, not a breathless-kept secret of the Assassin Order. Empty, rotted-out silos loomed in the distance, a monument to the cold silence of the place, and rusty farm equipment littered the landscape: shovels, hoes, a tractor or two, all left for the abuse of the sun and rain.

"I guess this is it," Boris said. He wasn't sure if he was confused, disappointed, or both. "Should we look around?"

Yosof shook his head, clearly as bewildered as he was. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

"The gas station map said this is Ovinkaifeck. I'm pretty sure." Nevertheless, there was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the burnt-out landscape. What had happened here? "I think we should look around."

"You sure? This place looks like the apocalypse hit early."

"I'm sure."

"…Okay, but if I step on a nail and get tetanus it's on you. I'm not up on my shots." Yosof opened the passenger door and hopped out of the truck. "Can we bring Lady? I hate the thought of leaving her in a cold car by herself."

"It might be dangerous. She's already hurt."

"But _Boris_."

"Just turn the heat on for her."

Yosof looked at him pitifully. "Darling."

Boris sighed. "Goddamnit." Grumbling, he jumped out of the car and opened the backseat. Lady perked up when she saw him, panting eagerly; he lifted the husky into his arms, grunting under the strain. "You know this is the second time I've lugged a giant dog around all day, right?"

"Just don't drop her." Yosof clapped him on the shoulder. "Look at you, being a good parent."

"Yes, I'm _marvelous_." Wincing, Boris adjusted his grip so her weight wasn't slowly draining the feeling out of his arms. "I say we visit the farmhouse first, see if there's anyone home."

"Good plan." Yosof set off at a brisk walk towards the collapsing house, and Boris trailed after him, privately wondering if his uncle had gone delirious in his final moments; blood loss could make you see heaven, as he knew from personal experience. Was this sun-bleached, ruined nightmare really where the last relics of his parents had waited for him all this time? Surely this wasn't the place.

But he felt obligated to explore anyway, just to make sure. "Let's just be careful. We don't know if this place is abandoned or not."

"It looks like no one's been here for a long time." Yosof frowned. "I wonder if something happened to them. Look how they just left all this farm equipment sitting around, like they had to drop it in a hurry."

"All you're doing is making me more paranoid." Boris carefully traversed the old fields, feeling dry soil crack under his feet; crops had not grown here for a long time. "Keep an eye out. There might be squatters around, or looters."

"Hang on." Yosof slowed down, and Boris nearly walked into the back of him. "Do you see that?"

"What?" Boris followed his gaze. "Oh. What the hell…"

An old woman was making her slow, meandering way across the barren fields towards them, picking her way through the wreckage; a walking cane tapped along at her side. "Hello, dearies!" she called, as cheerfully as if they had just wandered into a faculty picnic instead of trespassing on her property. "Can I help you boys with something?"

"Um…" Boris was completely thrown. _Where did she come from?_ "Is this Ovinkaifeck?"

"Hasn't been for a long time, I'm afraid." The woman neared them, chuckling sadly; her eyes, deeply buried in layers of wrinkles, studied them with a keenness that was almost disturbing. Boris wondered how old she was; she struck him as the kind of person who had seen the world, and all its light and darkness. "But it was. What brings you after such an old name?"

"We're looking for someone named Hel Kronsky," Yosof said. "We were hoping someone here might know –"

"Oh, what a sweet doggie!" Beaming, the old woman ran her age-spotted hand over Lady's ears, and the dog licked her hand happily. "Nice of you boys to bring her along. I always loved dogs. Had five of them myself."

"What were their names?" Boris asked, trying to make conversation.

"Oh, you two! What funny boys you are." She patted Lady's head. "But you have a nice dog, so I won't make a fuss about you waltzing in all uninvited. What a nasty habit that is! Kindly don't do that again, darlings. I'll have to call the authorities next time, and I don't want those young spunks running all over my nice old farm."

"We, er, we won't," Boris said, trading flabbergasted looks with Yosof. He had no idea what to make of her. "Promise."

"Oh, but I hate sending my guests off with empty tummies. Can't have you leaving all sad and hungry, now can we? You two look positively famished." She regarded them warmly. "Do you want some cookies for the road, dearies?"

"Er –" Yosof started, but she poked him sharply with her walking cane, and he spluttered in surprise.

"That's enough out of you! Now come on, dearies, let's go inside for some cookies and milk and we'll talk. I just made a fresh batch."

"But –" Boris trailed off as she turned away from them and hobbled off towards the farmhouse. Clearly it had not been an invitation.

Yosof rubbed his side, staring after her in amazement. "What in the name of Mohatma just happened?"

"I can't tell if she thinks we're her grandchildren or she's about to call the police." Nevertheless, Boris fell into step behind her. "Let's not encourage the second option."

"You're going with her?"

"Do you have a better plan?"

"…Not really, no." Yosof hurried to catch up with him. "But I really don't think we should eat her cookies."

"They're chocolate chip, dear!" the woman sang from ahead of them, making Boris and Yosof trade startled looks; for a woman who looked to be in her nineties, she clearly had excellent hearing. "And I have some biscuits for your nice dog, too. Poor thing, she's been on the wrong end of a crossbow."

"How did you know –" Boris started, but trailed off as they stepped into the farmhouse.

It was immediately clear that the extent of the damage to the house was the sagging roof. Inside, it was warm and pleasant, lit by gas lamps and smelling strongly of the cookies baking in the oven; Boris looked for pictures, any clues of who this woman might be, but the only indications that anyone lived here at all were the baking supplies and freshly watered houseplants. It struck him as odd that such an old woman wouldn't have a single picture frame on the wall, whether of her grandchildren or her dogs or even how this ancient farm had looked a long time ago.

But before he could comment on it, the woman bustled in, humming cheerily. "The cookies should be right out, dearies. Let me fetch you two some milk."

"Thank you," he relented, setting Lady down on the floor and seating himself at the dinner table; this woman had left him so baffled that he couldn't think of anything else to do, except go along with whatever strange game she was playing. Beside him, the puzzled-looking Yosof did the same.

 _What I'm wrong about all of this?_ he wondered, watching her put on oven mitts and pull the cookies out to cool. _Maybe she isn't playing at anything, and she's nothing more than a strange, friendly old lady who just so happens to live on an abandoned farm_. But somehow that didn't strike him as likely. His uncle had sent him here for a reason, and that meant something was up here. His sixth sense, that strange feeling he had sometimes, was unpredictable, but it was rarely wrong.

The woman set down two plates of cookies and glasses of milk. "Here you go, dearies. Now you eat up, and then we'll have a nice chat about who sent you here."

Boris ventured to take a bite of a cookie, half-expecting it to taste like old lace or almonds, and then nearly melted; it was _amazing_. It dissolved like water into the sweetest, smoothest chocolate he'd ever tasted, and she had put something in the dough to give a pleasant zing, like ginger or cinnamon. "Wow," he said, after he'd swallowed and sat for a while savoring the moment. "Wow."

"Wow," Yosof agreed, already stuffing more into his mouth. "These are incredible."

"I'm glad you like them, dearie. They're a family recipe." The woman sat down at the table and leaned her cane against the wall, then peered at them with those clever eyes. "Now then. Who told you about Ovinkaifeck?"

"It was my uncle," Boris said, dabbing his chin with a napkin. "Mir Torvald."

"Mir Torvald! Oh, that rascal! I never thought I'd hear from him again." She laughed, the sunspots on her neck bobbing. "He was such a troublemaker, you know. He always used to get his little friends and steal apples from my apple tree. I used to chase him around with a newspaper until he gave them back! What a little spitfire he was."

"You knew my uncle?"

"Of course I did, dearie! He was the naughtiest boy in the neighborhood." The old woman smiled fondly at the memory. "He sent you here, did he?"

"Yes." Boris hesitated. "He's dead."

"Oh, is he?" Her smile faded. "That's very sad, dear. We shouldn't talk about sad things like that. Eat your cookies."

"But –"

"Ah, ah! Cookies first." She regarded him warmly as he took another, cautious bite. "You said you were looking for Hel Kronsky, didn't you?"

"Do you know her?"

The woman opened her mouth to respond – then stopped as a rattling sound echoed through the house. Someone was knocking on the door.

Boris surged to his feet at once, but the woman was faster. "Coming!" she announced cheerfully, picking up her cane and hobbling to answer it.

"No, wait –" Boris started, but it was too late; she had already opened the door.

Two policemen stood on the doorstep, dressed in Russian uniform and wearing grim looks. Boris immediately had a bad feeling, and it only worsened when the woman asked, brightly as ever, "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I believe you can." One of them stepped inside, pushing her roughly. "Out of the way, Granny."

And Boris felt cold fingers pinch the back of his neck; his sixth sense, normally a quiet, lurking presence in the back of his mind, was screaming at him so loudly he could not ignore it. The message was clear.

 _Templars._

In disguise, yes, but that didn't make them any less dangerous, especially since he could see the pistols at their sides and the lumps of other weapons in their coats. They must have followed the truck here, or maybe they had been suspecting Ovinkaifeck was important to the Assassins and figured they'd pay these strange interlopers a visit… Either way, they were here, and Boris's fear and shock quickly hardened into cold resolve. Assassin or not, these Templars had intruded on this woman's property and home, and that made them criminals, uniforms or otherwise – the sheath on his belt suddenly felt hot, ready for action. Just one more step. One more move, and he would draw –

The policeman's eyes traveled over the dining room, taking in the rubbish and ruin, then alighted on Boris, standing by the dinner table with his hand at his belt. Yosof sat frozen beside him, eyes wide, with a cookie halfway to his mouth. "And what do we have here?" His lips coiled into a smile. "Two little baby Assassins. How precious."

"We're not –" Yosof stammered, dropping his chookie. "What are you talking about? We're just – um – visiting our grandmother –"

"Stuff it." The man gestured to his companion. "Enjoy your last meal, Assassin dogs. This bakery is closed."

Lady growled, tail swishing threateningly over the tile; Boris stood ready, all his training kicking into gear. If the man took one step closer he'd draw the blade out of his belt – not the ideal weapon, but he'd already given Yosof his good knife, and this would do in a hurry. He could use the furniture to his advantage, the chairs and the table in particular serving as excellent barricades. If he had to escape, the windows were unlatched, and the back door –

"You shouldn't have done that, sonny," the old woman said, in the epitome of warm, grandmotherly serenity. "Now I'm going to have to kill you."

She raised her cane, and a blade snapped out of the bottom. The first policeman, turned as he was towards Boris, had exactly one second to look back in surprise before she jabbed it like a pike between his shoulderblades, and then, when he doubled over with a yell of pain, buried it in his throat. He slumped over as the other policeman drew his gun, pointing it at her head. "Don't moOOACKKKK –" This as she elbowed him in the Adam's apple with a loud _crunch,_ then spun the cane over her head and beaned him with the knoblike handle as he gasped for air, sending him sprawling to the tiles, senseless.

Calmly, she lowered her cane and brushed hair off the handle. "Well, that was unpleasant. Do you boys want any more cookies?"

Boris and Yosof gaped at her, thunderstruck. "Who the hell are you?" Yosof breathed.

"Why, I'm a Master Assassin, dear. Now finish your milk." She sat down serenely at the table, as though nothing had happened and there weren't two bodies strewn across her dining room, and leaned the cane back against the wall. "Then we can talk about your legacy."

"You're Hel Kronsky," Boris said, finally understanding. "This is your hideout."

"Oh, dearie, you really mustn't assign such a scheming mind to a kindly old lady." But now he could see the clever twinkle in her eyes. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Boris. I've been waiting for you for a long time."

"My uncle said you had something for me." Despite spending his whole life running from Assassins, despite everything he had told himself about never getting involved, Boris couldn't help but marvel at her; this was a Master Assassin, a woman to be feared. This was Hel Kronsky, and Ovinkaifeck, this seemingly ruined farm no one had ever heard of, was her hideout, likely laced with traps and hidden from prying Templar eyes. It was the perfect place to hide – in a dilapidated, ruined corner of the boondocks, out of sight, on the grid but so remote that no one would ever bother to go there. "Do you?"

"Of course, I've been very good about keeping it for you. It's yours if you want it." Hel waved dismissively, as though it wasn't that important. "But I really am quite annoyed with you, Boris. Why did you go bringing those nasty Templars into my farm? Now I'll have to start beating them off again, and I'm sure they've set off all the traps and I'll have to go set up new ones. Good gracious, what a hassle. I might even have to move if they keep bothering me."

"Where is it?" Boris asked, determined to pursue the question. "Did my parents leave it for me? Did they know I'd come here?"

"So many questions, dearie! Have your cookies." Kronsky leaned down to feed Lady a handful of treats from her pocket, and the dog snapped them up happily. "All in good time. For now, though, I have to ask you." She straightened back up, studying Yosof keenly. "Who is this you've brought with you? Don't get me wrong, you seem like a nice young man, dearie, but you don't look like any Assassins I know."

"Oh." Boris was briefly flustered by the question. "Er – he's my –"

"Boyfriend." Yosof reached out and took his hand, squeezing it fondly. "I think that's the word you were looking for."

"…Right." Boris looked at him in mock-annoyance. "I was under the impression we weren't telling anyone."

"Oh, because she didn't know the moment she saw us bickering like a married couple."

"Friends can argue!"

"Not while calling each other _darling_ and holding hands in the car."

Boris sighed. He did have a point. "Maybe we're just really affectionate friends."

Kronsky laughed then, and both of them looked at her nervously, not sure what to expect; they were suddenly keenly aware that despite her Master Assassin status, despite protecting them and making them cookies, she might also be a zealous homophobe – you never knew with the older folks – and she could throw them off her farm anytime she wanted to, and then they would be back to square one and never learn anything about Boris's parents. But to Boris's mixed astonishment and relief, she only smiled at them kindly, apparently realizing why they had waited until now to bring it up. "Don't worry, dearies. I knew you boys were a couple. You're very cute together. I was never one for interfering with other people's love – isn't that right, dearie dog? Yes it is." She ruffled Lady's ears fondly. "What a good dog you have, too. You should keep her around."

"So can you show me?" Boris ventured. "What my parents left here?"

"We're sort of on a time crunch here," Yosof contributed.

"And if the Templars followed us, there might be more on the way…" Boris trailed off meaningfully.

"Oh, very well. If you're going to keep badgering me about it, dearies, I'll show you what I have." Kronsky rose from her chair and picked up her walking stick, even though Boris was now acutely aware that she didn't use it for walking. "Come along, dearies. We're going to the barn. And don't worry about those Templars – I have ways of keeping them out, and to keep them from following you when you leave. Where are you planning to go?"

Boris and Yosof exchanged glances. "We don't really know," Boris admitted. "We just wanted to find a safe place to hide, after we heard what you had to say."

"Well, if you'll let a kindly old woman guide you, I know a few places you can go. But that can wait for now." Kronsky hobbled out the front door, and Boris and Yosof hurried after her. "You know, Boris, I knew your parents, too. It was hard not to, of course, in those days."

"What were they like?" Boris asked. He couldn't help but be curious; they had died when he was very young. The only family he had ever known was his uncle – who obviously hadn't been a very loving presence in his life.

Kronsky smiled. "Your mother was the kindest, strongest woman I had ever met. She had the loveliest brown eyes, just like yours. And oh, how she loved music – she was an angel on the violin, that was one of the reasons your father loved her so much. For a while after you were born she'd play it over your crib so you could listen along. She was also German, did you know that? You're half-German."

Boris hadn't known that. "I never knew."

"They called her the Magpie, because her Assassin robes were black trimmed with blue and white. Such beautiful robes! I always envied them, myself. Cartier made them, and he doesn't make very many robes anymore."

"What do yours look like?" Yosof asked, apparently eager to learn more about the Assassins.

"Now, how is that your business, dearie?" But the twinkle in her eyes said she found his curiosity more amusing than irritating. "Well, if you must know, mine are a rather fetching shade of maroon. I don't wear them too much anymore, of course. They draw too much attention nowadays."

"I imagine they would," Boris said, and couldn't help smiling at the thought. _Assassin robes in this day and age would probably make you look less like a deadly killer and more like a stranded Comic-Con attendee._

"Anyhow, Boris, your father – oh, bless his heart, he was the sweetest man. He could be tough, but he never spoke badly about anyone. He loved to gamble, too, but he wasn't an addict – he'd put a few bills down on the blackjack table, and when he lost it, he'd laugh, clap the winners on the back, and buy them a round of drinks before he left, to congratulate them on their luck. _I'll get you next time_!" She chuckled softly at the memory. "He truly was a good man. I never heard him say a mean word in his life."

Boris listened, with mixed sadness and joy. "I wish I could have known them."

"You were raised by your uncle, weren't you?"

"Yes." He looked at his shoes. "Er – he was –"

"He didn't treat you very well," she inferred, gently. "He wanted to raise you to be strong, so you wouldn't die like them. But I think he forgot to raise you right in the process."

"I think he might have gone overboard with the whole _making me tough_ thing," Boris said. It was a vast understatement.

"It happens to many Assassins." She chuckled sadly as they neared the barn. "They want their children to better than them, and so they toughen them up – a little too much. They try so hard to be a trainer that they forget to be a father, or a mother, or an uncle." She pushed open the great barn doors. "But enough of that now. You're away from him now, and you can choose your own destiny. Come and see what I have for you, Boris."

Boris followed her, with more than a little trepidation. "This is where you're keeping it?"

"What better place to hide than the last place you would look?" Kronsky waded into a pile of hay and began shifting through it. "If you were a Templar, all vain and full of yourself, would you really want to sift through a great pile sodden pile of hay in search of an Assassin strongbox?"

No, he probably wouldn't. "Good point."

"Here we are." Carefully, she lifted a large box out of the hay pile. It was sleekly metallic, about the size of a steamer chest, but that wasn't what made Boris's heart speed up: it was the Assassin logo engraved on the lid, right above a complicated series of locks and codes.

"What is that symbol?" Yosof asked, as though sensing the direction of his thoughts. "Is that an Assassin thing?"

"No," Boris said. "It's _the_ Assassin thing."

Yosof grinned. "You're actually sounding excited about this. I thought you were the one who was determined not to become one of them."

"I am," Boris said, hastening to steel his expression. "I've just never seen an Assassin relic in person before. It's interesting."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"Here, Boris." Kronsky spun the locks and fiddled with the codes, and the strongbox snapped open. "Take a look."

Boris couldn't help it; he edged forward and peered inside, unsure what to expect. Would it be a cache of weapons and armor? Secret letters and documents? Both?

As it turned out, it wasn't any of those things; just a few wrapped packages, with a letter on top. It was sealed with red wax, and stamped with the same Assassin insignia, leaving little doubt as to whom it was intended for. Boris picked that up first, slit it open with a fingernail, and unfolded the letter inside.

"Read it," Yosof said earnestly. "What does it say?"

Boris read in silence. Then, as Yosof and Kronsky looked on, he started to blink a few times. Then he swiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Are you crying?" Yosof asked, awed.

"No." He blinked rapidly. "Just some hay in my eyes." He folded up the letter and tucked it into his coat for safekeeping. "Let's see what else is in there."

"Come on, read it," Yosof said. "I've never seen you cry before. I'm dying here. Was it from your parents?"

"I'll show you later." Boris wiped his eyes again, determined to maintain his composure. Then he picked up the first package, a hefty rectangular parcel the size of a toaster oven, and started to unwrap it. Yosof peered eagerly over his shoulder as he tore away the layers of brown paper and tape, until the little bundle finally fell open.

Inside was a thick black gauntlet, lined with steel and silver highlights and interspersed with glowing silver gears that gave it a steampunk look. It was an impressively gothic weapon, sleek and dark as the shadows in the barn around them, and expertly made, far lighter and more elegant than it looked. Boris opened the buckles carefully, handling it as gently as one might an infant, and slid it onto his arm. It fit like it was made for him, and when he snapped the buckles shut, a wave of something unidentifiable swept through him. There was something about its heavy, warm weight on his arm that felt… right. Familiar.

"What is it?" Yosof breathed.

"It's a Hidden Blade," Boris said, quietly. "It was my father's."

"Yes," Kronsky said, startling them both for the second time that day; she hadn't spoken in a while, clearly content to let Boris have these small, deeply personal moments to himself. "I knew he would leave it for you. He was allowed two by the Assassin Order when he graduated to Master, but always preferred to wear one. It wasn't hard to assume what he would do with the other."

"Open the next one," Yosof said. "This is amazing. We need to see it all."

Boris did. Inside the next package, this one small and so light that he nearly dropped it in his expectation of another heavy parcel, was a small, leather-bound book with the Assassin insignia stamped on the cover. He opened it, expecting some kind of secret code or a list of living Templars, then flipped through the pages, frowning. "I don't see anything. It's blank."

"That's weird." Yosof touched the paper curiously. "Maybe it's invisible ink or something?"

"Maybe." Boris handed it to him. "See what you can make of it while I open the last one."

The final package was thin and square, and also surprisingly light; he shook it experimentally, and heard something shifting quietly inside, like fabric. "This sounds strange."

"Come on, the suspense is killing me." Yosof was turning the journal upside down, sideways, and every which way, trying to figure out its secret. Kronsky watched him in obvious amusement. "Open it before I open it for you."

Boris reluctantly tore open the package, already suspecting what he would find there. Sure enough, inside was a set of thick, black robes, apparently opaque at first; but when he held them up to the light, they shimmered faintly, clearly made of something more than mere cotton. "Are these…"

"Yes," Kronsky said, voicing what he already knew. "These are your Assassin robes. Your parents must have had them made for you." She reached out and ran a liver-spotted, clawlike hand over the fabric. "And not just any robes – this is Cartier's work, the finest you could ask for. You're a very lucky man, Boris Torvald."

There was something mesmerizing about them, hypnotic and enticing. They were so purely black, like the depths of the ocean, but he could see blueish-purple glimmers in the threads, little designs weaved cleverly into the fabric: diamonds, triangles, stars. And the edges were trimmed with deep, royal blue, embroidered with diving seabirds and jackdaws. "These are beautiful."

Yosof also reached out to touch the fabric, with something like religious awe. "Your parents must have been really excited for you to be an Assassin. Otherwise they wouldn't have made you such fine robes."

"I guess so." Quietly, he folded them up and wrapped them back in the brown paper.

Yosof frowned. "You're not going to try them on?"

"Why would I?"

"Because they're yours," he said, as if it was obvious.

"No." Boris looked at Kronsky. "These are beautiful gifts, and I'm glad you gave them to me. I know my parents cared about me. But I'm not ready to be an Assassin yet."

"I could tell, dearie. I don't want to force anything on you." She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, suddenly coming out of her cool Assassin persona and back to her warm, grandmotherly self. "Dearie, you've been through much, things I can only imagine – and I've been alive far longer than you have. But this is a great purpose, a thing far beyond yourself. Your parents did not leave you these gifts so you could hide away and hoard them, for some unknown day in the future when you commit to your destiny. Your parents gave them to you because they knew their blood, the blood of Assassins and justice, ran in your veins. You can change the world, Boris, and free thousands of people from the tyranny of the Templars. With these gifts, you have been given the power to save lives. Do you really want to hide that away?"

He stared at the floor, saying nothing.

"You are an Assassin, Boris Torvald. Whether or not you choose to wear that robe and that Hidden Blade, and join the Order and bring it back from the brink of destruction where it now hovers, is up to you. But you cannot deny where you come from. This is your past, and if you choose, it can also be your future."

"What do you think, Boris?" Yosof asked. "What are you going to do?"

Boris looked at the robes, wrapped back up in their parcel. The purple-black glow of the threads winked back at him, and his parents' letter suddenly felt very warm in his pocket. And the weight of the Hidden Blade on his arm seemed to multiply a thousandfold, the hot metal pressing against the inside of his arm less of a comfort and more of a curse. "I… I don't know."

"You're afraid." Hel Kronsky spoke gently now. "What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing. I'm not afraid of anything. I just –"

"The truth, Boris."

"No." In a moment of sudden decision, he unbuckled the gauntlet and slid it off, then wrapped it back up in its parcel, too. Only then did he heft both packages into his arms. "I'll take these, because my parents gave them to me. I'll look at them, and I'll think about them. But I can't promise anything. I won't make that choice now, when I might regret it later."

"If that's what you want, dearie." Kronsky watched him with something like sadness. "I'm glad you came for them, Boris. That, at least, is a good sign. You deserve to have them, whether you commit to our path or not. And if you ever change your mind – if you do decide to join the Order – then come back here and find me, and I can tell you where to go next."

"I'll think about it," Boris said, and he meant it. "I promise I will. Whatever I decide, I'll let you know, and if I say no… if you want to take these back… give them to another Assassin who deserves them…"

"No. Assassin or not, they are yours. I would not take your parents' legacy from you. But you have a choice to make now." She opened the barn door. "I wish you well in whatever you decide, Boris Torvald. No one should ever be forced to make this choice, but I hope you make it wisely."

"Thank you. I will."

They stopped by the farmhouse to pick up Lady, then headed back to the truck. Hel Kronsky stood in the field, watching them, as they hopped into the car and shut the door, ready to leave Ovinkaifeck behind.

"You're going to _think about it_?" Yosof asked, the moment the engine started. "That's all? That's it?"

"What?" Boris frowned at him as he pulled out of the driveway. "That's all I could promise. I was being honest."

"Boris, you can't be serious. You're always telling me how you wish your life could change. Isn't this what you've always been waiting for?"

"You know how awful my uncle was to me." Boris eased the car out onto the road. "I'm not going to agree to join his Order just because my parents left me some nice gear and wrote me a letter. If the Assassins could produce a man like him, maybe they're not all the good guys."

"Well, no one organization is all good people, but that doesn't mean you can just reject the whole thing! You said it yourself, they're the freedom fighters! The good guys!"

"Yosof, I don't want to talk about this right now."

"Why not? Why the hell not? This is your big chance, and you just said to a Master Assassin's face that you would _think about it!"_

Boris stared at him, surprised. "Why are you getting so worked up about this? You just learned Assassins and Templars existed."

"Because you shouldn't judge all Assassins based on your uncle. That's not fair to them. Hel Kronsky obviously isn't a violent sociopath –"

"How do we know? She certainly did a number on those Templars. I don't think they'll be going home to their families."

"You know that's different!"

"How so? Maybe I don't want to kill people just because they're on the other side, Yosof, did you ever consider that? Maybe I'm not a killer!" This last part came out louder than he'd intended, and the whole car went quiet; even Lady put her ears back, whining in alarm.

Finally Yosof spoke, quietly. "I get it now."

"Do you?" Boris pulled into a motel parking lot; it was getting late, and he needed to rest and clear his head. "You understand me?"

"Yes, I do." Yosof watched him as he put the car in park and yanked the keys out of the ignition. "You don't want to kill people. You don't think you can. And Assassins have to kill people. That's what you're afraid of – the guilt."

Boris jumped out of the car and heaved their luggage out of the trunk, snapping out the travel handles. "We'll talk about this later, Yosof."

"That's what you say when I'm right." Yosof picked up Lady and followed him into the motel, their suitcases clattering on the sidewalk. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Enough." Boris smiled tightly at the motel greeter. "Room for two and a dog, please."

Yosof was silent as he took his keys and headed down the hallway towards their room. Only when they were inside, and Boris shut the door and deadbolted it behind them, did Yosof venture, "Maybe you don't have to kill people, Boris."

"Right. Because _Assassins_ just sit down and make daisy chains with Templars when they get upset." Boris threw his suitcase into a chair and flopped down on the bed, sighing deeply. "I hate how well you can read me."

"It's my superpower." Yosof set Lady on the floor and arranged blankets to made a dog bed for her, then laid gently down beside him, taking his hand. "It's okay, Boris. You'll figure it out. You just need to decide where you stand in all of this. Would you be willing to kill if it meant protecting me?"

"Of course I would." Boris closed his eyes, nestling against Yosof's shoulder. "I would kill a hundred Templars for you, darling."

"Well, there are probably a lot of other couples out there like us, who love each other so much they'd die if they had to. And the Templars are out there killing them without a second thought. Don't you want to stop that, even if it means you'd have to kill a few of them to do it? If a Templar ever tried to hurt me, wouldn't you stab them in the throat in a heartbeat? Apply that feeling towards when they try to hurt other people."

Boris considered this. "Yosof, you might have a point."

"I'm always right, darling." Yosof kissed him fondly. "Does that mean you'll think about it? For real?"

"…Maybe." Boris sighed. "I'm just afraid. What if I go to kill a Templar, and I freeze up and can't do it and get myself killed? What if that gets _you_ killed? Or some other poor innocent who was counting on me?"

"You won't freeze up." Yosof played with his fingers, drawing circles on his palm with his thumb. "I know you wouldn't. If some Templar out there pointed a gun at a little girl, you would break his neck without hesitation."

"I probably would." Boris sighed. "I wouldn't like it, though."

"Well, no one does. I bet Hel Kronsky doesn't. But sometimes you have to, if it means keeping other people – innocent people – safe. Sometimes you have to end a life to save ten more."

"You might just be right, Yosof."

"I always am." Yosof pressed gentle kisses against his neck. "You know, I really did miss you."

"Did you now." Boris feigned exasperation as Yosof snuggled closer to him, kissing his collarbone. "See, I didn't really miss you that much. You're honestly just not that special to me."

"Oh, come on. You know you love me."

"I'm really tired, too." Boris rolled over, yawning exaggeratedly. "So very, incredibly tired…"

"You asshole," Yosof said. "Come here and kiss me already."

"Nope. Good night." Boris turned off the light on their dresser and rested his head on the pillow. "Too tired."

" _Boris_."

"Sweet dreams!"

" _BORIS_."

He pretended to snore quietly.

"Fine." Yosof rolled over with a deep sigh. "Good night, you stupid stubborn Assassin."

"Good night."

There was a brief moment of silence. Then Yosof said, "If you keep pushing me away like this, I'm going to become a Templar just to spite you."

"Well, then I'd have to kill you."

"I'd kill you first."

"No you wouldn't. I'd strike in the middle of the night, like – _this_!" Boris tackled him, and Yosof yelled in surprise. "Die, Templar scum!"

"Assassin dog!"

As it turned out, pretending to kill each other made for an excellent prelude to slightly more recreational activities, and all thoughts of destiny and Assassins and Hidden Blades went completely out of Boris's mind for a while. It wasn't until morning rolled around, and Boris stirred first, blinking blearily at the red numbers on the alarm clock – six-thirty – that his thoughts returned to the two packages sitting in the corner of the room, the robe and the Hidden Blade, waiting for his verdict. They seemed to wait for him, asking a silent question: _Are you ready?_

But those could wait a little while longer. He looked to his left instead, watching Yosof snooze beside him, half-dressed and disheveled; somehow it made him look even more beautiful, with his hair wild and clothes in disarray, tangled up in the blankets and snoring quietly into the pillows. It was so hard to believe sometimes, that this man was his; sometimes he still woke up confused at finding him there, because surely Yosof, with the warm brown eyes and the brightest smile he'd ever seen, couldn't be his.

That was enough sentimentality, though – he had a decision to make today, the most important decision of his life. He rolled out of bed, careful not to wake the snoring Yosof, and went hunting for his clothes. Halfway through zipping up his jeans, he stopped, because a strange, insane thought had just occurred to him. What if…

He unwrapped one of the packages, unfolded the beautiful, inky-black robes. They were soft and warm as he slid them on, carefully doing up each small buckle and button; some of them were hard to reach, and a few were in odd places, revealing hidden pockets and sheaths that were clearly designed for throwing knives and concealed weapons. He pulled the pointed hood over his head, and then he just stood there and stared at himself in the mirror for a while, admiring how the black-and-blue cloak looked on him; he looked powerful, dangerous, like someone to be feared. He looked like an Assassin.

"Wow," Yosof said, from behind him. "They look even better when you're wearing them."

"I didn't know you were awake." Boris turned as Yosof came up beside him, barefoot and smiling triumphantly. "Yes, I'm wearing the robes. You don't have to look so smug about it."

"I'm not smug." Yosof draped an arm across his shoulder, kissing his ear. "You look good, darling."

"…I kind of do, actually." Boris strapped on the Hidden Blade, surprised to find that it matched the color perfectly; clearly his parents had designed them to go together, a complete outfit. Now he looked even more mysterious, and deadly. "I mean, it's a little tacky and excessive, obviously, but… you have to admit it's got style."

"I have a feeling that if you wore all that into the hotel lobby, you'd get tackled by security." Yosof leaned against him fondly. "But still. Does this mean…"

Boris took a slow breath. "We're going back to Ovinkaifeck."

"Yes!" Yosof pumped his fist in the air. "I knew it! See, I know what I'm doing."

"You seduced me just for this, didn't you?" Boris grinned as it dawned on him. "You tricky bastard."

"What? Maybe I just like you." But Yosof smiled slyly as he picked up his suitcase. "Come on, tiger. Let's go tell Hel Kronsky you're ready for action."

"Don't call me that," Boris said, undoing the buckles and shrugging off the robes. "It's demeaning."

"Cutie-pie?"

"Definitely not."

"Sweetheart it is."

"Could you not?"

"Of course, honey. I would never."

"For the last time, I am an Assassin. I am a creature of the night. You will fear me!"

" _Cutie-pie_." Yosof kissed his cheek. "Now take that Hidden Blade off so we don't get mobbed in the elevator, grab Lady, and let's head back to the creepy old farm in the middle of nowhere to learn how to kill people."

"You make it sound so weird and culty."

"Oh, because this isn't a murder-cult you're joining?"

"It's a _morally correct_ murder-cult. There's a difference."

"Right, of course there is."

They left the motel hand in hand, Yosof with a new spring in his step. "I have a murder-cultist boyfriend now! Look at me moving up in life."

"If you call it that in front of Kronsky, she's going to gut you with her cane."

"Let her try." Yosof struck a dramatic pose as Boris loaded their suitcases into the car. "Maybe I'll become an Assassin too. Maybe I have cool, murdery ancestors too."

"Well, we can test that." Boris closed the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat. "Do you ever get weird feelings about situations? Like a tingling on the back of your neck, or a strange feeling in your gut?"

"Sometimes. But that's kind of being human, right?"

"I mean all the time. Frequently. Like you're attuned to what's going on around you in a weird way."

"Well, never to that level." Yosof frowned as they pulled out of the parking lot. "I mean, I've noticed that about you. Like how you knew the cabin was burning before we saw the smoke. But I've never been psychic like that."

"It's not being psychic. It's… hard to explain."

"So psychic, basically." Yosof grinned as Boris turned a corner onto a dirt road. "You're psychic."

"I… feel things. That's different from seeing the future."

"Right." But Yosof looked thoughtful now. "Do you really think I could be an Assassin, too? Maybe we could be a badass pair of killer kings, ruling the streets together. That'd make for a great movie, wouldn't it?"

"Do you want to?"

"Maybe I do." Yosof watched trees flick by out the windows. "But I guess you have to have special blood, don't you? I'm probably just a nobody."

"Well, there have been plenty of Assassins who didn't have strong bloodlines and still rose to greatness." Boris racked his memory, searching for examples. "Like Henry Green."

"Who was that?"

"An Assassin in Victorian London. He mentored the famous Master Assassin twins, Jacob and Evie Frye, and helped them retake London from the Templars. And he was Indian, like your mother's side of the family."

"Ooh, that sounds cool." Yosof looked delighted. "So there have been Indian Assassins? Tell me about more of them!"

"Well, there was also Arbaaz Mir…"

Boris regaled him with stories of famous Assassins as they drove back to Ovinkaifeck, about Ezio Auditore da Firenze and Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Connor Kenway and all the others who had been lost to the annals of history. All the while Yosof listened attentively, fascinated and absorbing information, but more so overjoyed by this new energy in Boris's eyes, in his demeanor, the new spark that had seemingly lifted him out of his usual, half-depressed, grim state. Now he spoke animatedly, gesturing with vigor as he told the story of Ezio's hunt of the Borgias and the secrets of Leonardo da Vinci. There was something new about him, as though he'd found a new purpose and had reason to be happy again. Now he had someone to tell about all of this. Now he had a mission, and a destiny.

But, more than anything else, he had something that he had been searching for his entire life, something that first Yosof, then Hel Kronsky, and now his parents had given him. He had something that hiding away in the wilderness, cowering from the world, could never have provided.

Now he had something to live for.


	3. Silicon and Stone

Her father's stories, when he deigned to tell them, were marvelous, and when she was a little girl Kayla had believed all of them. It was difficult not to; he told them in such great detail, painting vivid tapestries in her mind, that they seemed strikingly real – even if, as it seemed at the time, they were only stories, gripping dramas pulled from his own imagination.

Nowadays, of course, she knew better. She knew those tales, so carefully recounted and illustrated, meticulously designed so that her young, impressionable mind would believe and remember them, had been more than just pretty stories. They were warnings – dire lessons he was teaching her, fear and anger he was instilling in her of the world he would someday leave in her hands.

But she still remembered sitting cross-legged on the carpet, young and naïve, watching her father lean back in his plushy recliner with the raptness of a mortal beholding a god. He took a slow drink of wine, brushed invisible dust out of his mustache, and then said, "When I was eight years old, my mother left on a business trip to London."

"Wow," Kayla said, reverently. "What is London like?"

"You see it now as it is – filtered, clean and ordered, everything in its place. There are still pockets of chaos, of course; one cannot eliminate them completely, even though the Assassins who once instigated the disorder are nearly gone." His thick brows drew down, apparently irked by the reminder that his enemy had once held any power at all. "But in those days, Kayla, the city of London was a beautiful nest of chaos, a remnant of its long Assassin rule. The bridges and buses wove together like spiders on strings, the brothels and bars teemed with the unruly, unwashed masses, all while throngs of people filtered from work to home to work like pale, dying ghosts… such terrible majesty you cannot imagine." He took another sip of wine. "But it was just that – terrible. Do you know why?"

"No."

"Because that city was under the fist of a Master Assassin. He controlled the gangs, the businesses, the politics, all in the spirit of his distant ancestors who wrested the city from our control long ago. And I did not know that, on the third night of her stay in London, my mother was going to kill him."

Kayla listened, eyes wide.

"She already had a plan. This Master Assassin, you see, rarely came out during the day – such is the nature of those despicable bottom-feeders, to fear the light in all its forms – but at night, when the spiders settled down and the city closed its eyes, he wandered out of his hideout to do his disreputable business. My mother knew from her reconnaissance that he would be checking on one of his warehouses later in the evening, and so she took the trolley there. An old building on the edge of town, filled to the rafters with crates of food and gunpowder." He scowled into his wine. "Such waste. I will never understand it, how wasteful these Assassins are."

If she had been older, and wiser, Kayla would have commented on the fact that he said this while drinking vintage wine, leaning back on corduroy cushions, and wearing a slick black suit worth more than a small mortgage. But she wasn't older, and so she said earnestly, "And then what happened?"

"She laid in wait."

Kayla could almost see it in her mind: her grandmother, crouching in the shadows of an old warehouse and watching the Master Assassin sidle out under the fluorescent lights, flipping a penny with his thumb. He would have been flanked on both sides by acolytes, bodyguards and eager scribes as he checked the labels on the boxes, dispensed careless orders to the waiting novices who hung on his every word, and cracked jokes at the expense of the Templars to laughter and jeers. He would never have seen an attack coming, but he would also have been bristling with weapons, and one could never underestimate an Assassin's reflexes. One slip and the ambush would have been over before it started.

"He was a difficult target," her father said, as though reading her mind. "My mother had anticipated this. He arrived with heavy guard – four soldiers, two novices and a few other minions, some of whom were putting on a good show of being drunk as they wandered the aisles. But my mother had been a Templar for a long time, and she knew their tricks. She knew all of them were on high alert."

"An Assassin never rests," Kayla said, reciting one of the mantras he had taught her.

"Precisely, my daughter." He ran a slow finger along the rim of his wineglass. "And yet my mother, in all her wisdom, had not anticipated one thing."

"Which was?"

"Assassins are gone now, Kayla, and at that time they were dying out. My mother underestimated them, and forgot one very important thing – something you must never forget about Assassins. Do you know what that thing is, Kayla?"

"They can climb things?" Kayla guessed.

"They can, but that is not what foiled my mother that day."

"They're really tough."

"Naturally, but here is the most important thing about Assassins: though rare, there are some who have a gift we do not. They have Eagle Vision."

"What's that?" Kayla asked. It sounded mysterious and exciting, like a superpower.

"Eagle Vision is the innate Assassin ability to see through walls." Her father smiled sadly into his wine. "And this Master Assassin, bless my mother's heart, had it. He knew she was there the moment she entered the warehouse."

"So then what happened?"

"What do you think?" He drained the wineglass and waved to the manservant, who quietly took the empty glass and bustled off. "I like to think he called out to her. It's just what a proud, ego-driven Assassin would do. _I see you there, hiding behind those boxes_ , he would have said. _Come out and fight like a real Knight Templar. Or are you going to cower in the shadows?_ And my mother would have stepped out, because that's how she liked to fight – with honor. She never liked ambushes, even though they were necessary at times." He smiled sadly into his glass. "It was a weakness of hers, that honor. We liked to joke it would get her killed someday, but that day… well. I never joked about it again."

Kayla fidgeted eagerly, waiting for the epic conclusion to what was surely an incredible story. Surely her grandmother had fought, and fought hard, battling the Master Assassin one-on-one with blades and guns and knives and fists. They must have used all their skills, all their wits, to try and outwit each other, find weaknesses; and surely the minions would have stood back, let them fight, the honorable way. The Templar way. And surely, surely, her grandmother would have won. "What happened next?"

"He killed her. He slit her open like a fish and ripped out her guts. That was how they found her – hanging from the rafters, her insides dangling out like ornaments."

Kayla, the little girl barely out of kindergarten, sat absorbing this gory scene in stunned silence.

"Of course, we sought revenge. And soon that Master Assassin was killed for his crimes. But I never forgot my mother's death at their hands, and that was what led me to the path of the Templars, and my ancestors. I wanted to fulfill the legacy my mother left for me – but I also wanted to make the Assassins pay for what they had done to her, and to Templars all around the world. Countless children left without a mother, countless homes broken, countless lives destroyed. I swore to change that, and I have. They are almost dead now, their former power shattered. You will have little to fear from them, except cleaning up what we have already nearly finished."

"Oh," was all Kayla said. She was still a little shaken from his detailed, gruesome description of her grandmother's death. Besides, he had never told her this story before – he'd always brushed off her questions about his mother, only telling her pieces, bits here and there; that his mother was a mighty Templar, and that she had loved his father very much. But now that Kayla knew the truth, she just felt numb inside. Why had he told her?

He must have known, because his voice softened. "Kayla, I'm not telling you this to scare you, or make you fear the Assassins and what they might do to you. I'm telling you this because you are getting old enough to understand this war I have raised you to finish." He studied her critically, searching her face for a reaction. "You are young now, but you are getting older, and when you are old enough, I want you to go out into this broken, chaotic world and finish what your mother and I started. The Assassin Order is almost extinguished from this earth, and once I become the Grandmaster that I am destined to be, you and I are going to ensure it never rises again. We will end this once and for all – together, if we must, or alone, if I die and you are left to complete my life's work. Whatever happens, this war will end in our favor. Do you understand the great task I have set for you, the last and greatest of the Giordanos?"

Kayla said nothing.

His voice sharpened. "Do you not realize how much I am entrusting to you? When I am gone, you will take my place, and crush the Assassins once and for all."

"I don't want to," she said, with all the indignant petulance her young mind could muster.

"But you will." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "You will. I'll make sure of it."

It was funny, how those old memories haunted her. Back then, her father's tales of Assassins and Templars and fantastic powers had been just that – tales. Of course she believed them, but she didn't really believe them; back then she thought he was just warning her about the dangers of the world, using this silly little story of knights and killers as an allegory. It wasn't until years later, long after the glow of her father's words faded and the ugly truths began to pile up, that the imaginary little war became a reality – and a dangerous one. It was then that she learned the real reason for all the stories, lessons, mantras, and lectures. And it was the farthest thing from make-believe.

But little Kayla could never have known that. All she knew was that her father was a strange, powerful man who had servants, wealth and influence; he had an odd way of speaking that lulled you into agreeing with him; and he hated Assassins with every fiber, every cable of the clever, scheming brain lurking behind those thick brows and sharp face. He hated Assassins, and so he made it his life's mission to hunt them down. And when he did, Kayla knew, he gutted them – the same thing the Master Assassin had done to his mother, all those years ago.

Revenge.

He was a man of revenge, power and danger, and she loved him for being her father, but feared him for being what he was: a Templar, and a lethally good one. One that had set his sights on being the next Grandmaster, and so boasted about every boiling, rebellious heart he ripped from the corpses of dead Assassins as though they were prized trophies. There were even rumors that after he was finished dismembering them, he dipped feathers in their blood and added them to his favorite uniform, the heavy black cloak that bristled with crow's feathers like black teeth.

They called him Stefan Giordano to his face, and the Red Crow behind his back.

It was only logical, then, that Kayla Giordano should have great expectations placed on her. After all, she was the daughter of one of the most dangerous Templars alive, the heiress of a terrifying legacy – someday, they said, she would take up the bloodsoaked mantle of the Red Crow, don the cloak of black feathers and hunt Assassins with the same mad fervor. Someday, she would be just as great as her father, and as feared.

She did not know any of this, of course – not then, when her most important concerns were adding to her stuffed animal collection and worrying about if she'd ever need braces. But when she grew older, and wiser, she finally saw what was in the cards for her. And whereas before she had feared the Assassins, and their tyranny, now she feared something else. She feared her own name –

"Lost in thought again?"

Kayla snapped back to reality, blinking. It took her a moment to remember why the left side of her face was numb; she had zoned out and rested her cheek on the desk. "Oh," she said, lifting her head hastily and brushing hair out of her eyes. "Sorry, Nate. I must have dozed off."

"Don't make a habit of it." Nate regarded her with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Lina will want to see your code tomorrow, and you've written a grand total of ten lines today. I hazard to wonder if she might not be very impressed."

"Right, right. Sorry." Kayla cracked her knuckles and set her fingers back on the keyboard. "Thanks for waking me up. I actually need to finish this sometime today or it'll set my whole timeline back."

"What were you dreaming about, anyway? You were mumbling something about Jack and Evel, and some other bit about fries." Nate flicked through his own code, a mess of tangled expressions that looked more like angel hair pasta than a complex water physics simulation. "A boyfriend of which you often fantasize, perchance? A food you shared on the eve of an ill-gotten gain?"

"You're hilarious." Kayla tapped out a few lines. "I don't know any Jacks or Evels, other than a drunk senior from a freshman year party. And I hate French fries."

"I will be sure to store this information for future use." Nate reached over and pulled down the hood of her sweatshirt. "And you can't wear hoods here, remember? Company policy."

"Maybe I want to look mysterious."

"Maybe you want to get fired."

"You have no idea how much I want to get fired." Kayla fixed a missing semicolon, and frowned at the growing list of compiler errors. "But it's kind of hard when your father has dirt on literally everyone who works here, and every supervisor forgives your stupid on-purpose mistakes because of it."

"Sometimes I forget you are the daughter of royalty, Kayla Giordano." Nate mock-bowed. "Please, forgive my lack of courtesy. Make way for the mighty programmer to rule them all – the long-awaited queen of the nerds!"

"I know you think you're funny, but – oh God, what have I done? My whole code is just a giant kludge of red stop signs." Kayla shook her mouse at the screen. "Damn you, compiler! Why don't you understand my gibberish?"

"Is it really that hard to write code to simulate the physics of _cacti_?" Nate grinned. "Actually, never mind. That sounds like a _prickly_ problem."

"I'd like to see _you_ try it, Mister I-Can-Code-Water-Really-Well." Kayla tapped angrily on the backspace button. "I'm just going to delete this whole bit and start over. Maybe then something will actually work in this mess."

"Are things getting _thorny_ over there?"

"No." Kayla cut out another code block. "They are not."

"Perhaps you might even call it a _sticky_ situation?"

"Oh, shut your damn smart mouth already."

Laughing, Nate leaned over to peer at her screen. "Your code is very neat, if it helps."

"I'd prefer it to actually work over being clean, but thanks."

"You know, I wrote an Easter egg into my last code, with all the character dialogue and nonsense." Nate smirked. "Would you like to know how to activate it?"

"Do I need that information in my life?" Kayla scanned her code, searching for more errors. "It's not like I ever play these games anyway."

"You have your character walk into the third bar –"

"Why do I hear talking and not typing?" Lina called from the next room. Nate and Kayla promptly hunched over their computers and shut their mouths.

It was a long time before Kayla hissed, "You are terrible at puns."

"You want to hear some better ones?" Nate brushed a bit of dust off his keyboard. "After work, maybe? At the coffee place you like?"

"You'd better buy me a latte, you overconfident bastard." But Kayla was smiling as she set the debugger running. "Some people might construe that as a date, you know."

"Are you one of those people?"

"It depends."

"On what?" Nate leaned back in his chair, adopting a dramatic smolder. "How adorkable and charming and devilishly intelligent you find me? Perhaps how skilled I am at the intricate details of simulating fluid physics?"

"No, it'll depend on the shoes you wear to take me dancing afterwards." Kayla's computer dinged, and she pumped her fist in the air. "Yes! Compiled!"

"Look at you." Nate high-fived her. "And I didn't know you liked dancing, by the by. What are you into? Tango? Salsa? Break? I know some good places."

"You'll have to wait and find out." Kayla added a few new lines. "The success of this endeavor will also depend on how good a dancer you are, just so you know. So you'd better study up if you want to wow me."

"Now you're really intriguing me." Nate leaned forward to study his code. "Oh hey, I just noticed I messed up the drowning part of this code."

"How do you mess up drowning?"

"Let's just say I almost made the main character instantly drown when he touches water."

"Oh man, corporate would have had your ass for that." Kayla grinned as she rose from her chair. "You want some coffee? I'm craving Sumatran roast."

"Almond creamer with a swish of whipped cream, thank you very much." Nate watched her go, smiling. "So if we're going on this date –"

"Hang on, I need my coffee before we discuss anything about my social life." Kayla left the office and headed for the coffee machine, whistling contentedly. She found a fresh filter, poured in the grounds and water, then leaned back against the counter, closing her eyes.

Funny, how she had been thinking lately. Usually she tried not to think at all, about her father and the cloak of black feathers and the terrifying world she had inherited from him – tried not to wonder if Nathan knew the truth about the games they were making together, where they came from and what they were for. Of course he wouldn't, but sometimes she wondered.

When she returned to the office, two mugs of coffee in hand, Lina was studying Nate's code with a critical eye. "You know, out of everyone who works here, I have to say that your code is the hardest to understand."

"Because it's so good?" Nate said hopefully.

"Because you have the visual organization skills of a drunken orangutan." Lina sighed. "I'm sure this works beautifully, but please, for my sanity, glance at a style guide sometime. And get back to me when you've written something legible. In the meantime…" She turned, smiling tiredly at Kayla. "What do you have for me today?"

"Well, my code finally compiled. So there's something." Kayla set the mugs down on the table, then plopped down in her chair and scrolled through her code. "I've got most of the physics down now, I just need to finalize the shaders –"

"This is hardly an improvement on what you showed me yesterday." Lina frowned. "I only notice a few lines are different. What did you even work on this whole day?"

"Well, I – I, er –" Kayla floundered helplessly. Truth be told, she hadn't really done much today, besides chatting with Nate and adding a few comments here and there. "I fixed some collision bugs," she wheedled.

"But did you actually make any progress on the code? Because I don't see much here." Lina sighed. "I expect better from you, Kayla. I really do. Please have something substantial to show me by the end of the day."

"Yes, boss, I will. Promise." Kayla stared morosely at the keyboard, wishing she could sink into it and disappear. "Sorry."

"It's all right. We all have bad days. Just try and do a little more work, okay? I'll take another look before you leave." Lina headed off, and they were alone again.

Nate winced at Kayla. "That's practically a beatdown coming from her."

"I know, I know. It's my fault." Kayla tapped furiously on the keys, trying to make up for lost time. She could get it to compile later; she just needed raw code to show some progress. "I hate that feeling. Feels like I'm a kid being scolded for spilling apple juice, except I'm an adult and I'm getting reprimanded for being bad at my job."

"Don't worry about it." Nate took a sip of his coffee. "Thank you for the brew, by the way. Quite to my taste. And I'm touched you remembered which mug is mine."

"It's literally the nerdiest one there is." His mug was a Darth Vader head, because of course it was; it seemed like everything he owned belonged to some kind of fandom. Not that Kayla could claim any better – her purse was covered in Zelda keychains. "So about that date. I love the coffee place, but maybe we could try dinner instead?"

"Where would you like to go? I know this marvelous little El Salvadorean place on the edge of town." Nate set down his mug and typed a few lines. "They have a tres leches cake that would make God himself weep."

"You've caught my interest. Do they have mojitos?"

"Oh, you know they have mojitos."

"I'm in."

"Excellent." Nate chuckled. "And on that note, I've been intending to ask you another question."

"Do tell." Kayla frowned at her new code as she started up the compiler, praying it wouldn't spit out the wall of errors it had given her before. "I'm listening."

"I got an offer yesterday." He studied her, looking for a reaction. "They asked me to test out a new version of the Animus software."

"Okay…?" Kayla raised an eyebrow. "You mean debugging it?"

"No." Nate fidgeted. "I mean testing it. As in, getting inside the Animus."

Kayla stared. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." He managed a chuckle. "I said I would think about it, and they'll be waiting for my answer today. But I wanted to hear your opinion. Do you think I'm mentally prepared for it? Have you ever been in one?"

Kayla weighed her words carefully. "I've seen one in action before."

"But have you gotten in?"

"…Listen. I can't speak for everyone, but the Animus is dangerous. You know about the Bleeding Effect, and what it does to…" She trailed off. "You know the stories."

"Right. Of course." Nate sighed. "And yet I find myself wondering if my DNA contains any interesting secrets."

 _It must_. The thought slipped into Kayla's mind, sudden and unwelcome. _It must, if they asked you. They only ask you if you've got someone important in there, hidden away in those coils, their memories waiting to be unlocked…_

She shook herself out of it. It wasn't the time. "Listen," she said again, wanting to make him understand. "The Animus is not a toy. It's powerful, and frightening, and it has capabilities we don't even realize yet. If you're going to get in it, you have to really understand the risks. You might learn things about yourself, your ancestors, that you never wanted to learn."

"I know." He fiddled with his hands nervously. "I know. But it's such an opportunity. What if I turn them down, and then I get mysteriously fired for a reason no one will explain to me, or I never get offered the chance again? Doesn't this seem like a very significant thing to turn down? I love this job, and I don't want to risk it over something like this."

"Of course not," Kayla said. "But it's also a significant thing to jump into without thinking. You really need to think about this, Nate. It could actually change your whole life."

"Right. Naturally." He sighed. "Thank you for the input. I was just curious what you thought about the whole thing."

They coded quietly for a while, silently shining in the blue-green light from their computer monitors, until another thought crept into Kayla's mind, soft and stealthy. _He doesn't know what he's getting into._

"Nate," she said. It suddenly struck her that this was the right thing to say. "Nate. Don't do it."

"You really think so?" He glanced away from his screen, frowning. "Why?"

"Just trust me. Don't."

"…Yes. You're probably right." He swiveled back to his screen. "It's too dangerous."

"It is," Kayla said, and prayed he wouldn't bring it up again. To her relief, he didn't, and when they checked out of work later that day, he never mentioned whether he'd given them his answer. He only pointed her to the restaurant, then agreed to meet her there in an hour. Nothing seemed strange.

At least, until Kayla had been sitting in the booth waiting for him for twenty minutes, and the waiters started giving her sympathetic looks. Now, this was unusual. If there was one thing that never changed about Nate, it was that he was never late to anything. Ever.

Half-indignant, half-worried, Kayla sent him a text: _Where r u? You're late!_

Then, ten minutes after that: _I'm waiting for my knight in shining armor, buddy. You'd better not disappoint me._

And twenty minutes after that: _I'm calling the goddamn police if you don't show up soon._

Twenty minutes after that, she finally accepted that no, Nate was not going to text her back, and yes, she would have to enjoy her mojito alone. She took one last sip, paid her bill, and then drove home – not angry at being slighted, only concerned for her friend, and with an ominous, prickly feeling on the back of her neck that felt like cold needles. What had happened to her favorite, charmingly annoying programmer who drank from the Darth Vader mug and would come ten minutes early to a funeral?

She sent him one last, forlorn text: _Buddy, please be okay._

There was an obvious possibility, but she refused to accept it. Surely Nate wouldn't have been so overconfident, so sure of his own abilities and sanity, that he agreed to test out the Animus right away, before he had time to prepare himself. Surely his clever, calculating mind hadn't agreed to such a massive risk, even with the fear of losing his job and that nebulous promotion he'd been waiting for.

Kayla stared at the road ahead of her for a few seconds. It couldn't be.

Of course, there was only one way to find out. But it would require doing the unthinkable. Did she really dare to make that leap? One false move, one wrong word or slip of the tongue, and it would all be over…

"Call Dad," she said at last, because she was feeling suicidal today.

"Calling Dad," her voice assistant said serenely, and Kayla tried not to panic as the rings began. She hadn't called her father out of the blue like this in a long time. What would she be interrupting? An important business meeting? A Templar killing circle? An active murder scene?

Thankfully, when he picked up on the third ring, he sounded calm and serene – his usual, put-together self. That meant he wasn't in the process of something terrible. "Hello, Kayla. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Do you know Nathan Rolding? From the Abstergo tech department?"

"Yes." Her father's voice took on a sudden edge. "What about him? Is he an Assassin mole? I've found two of them this week already."

"No, no," she said hastily. "He's fine. But he mentioned he was recruited to try the Animus, and now I can't get a hold of him, so I was wondering if you knew anything about it."

There was a long pause. Then her father coughed politely. "It seems you've put me in a rather awkward position, Kayla."

"What do you mean?"

"He went under ten minutes ago. I'm watching his Animus session right now."

 _"WHAT?"_ Kayla nearly swerved off the road. "Oh my God, you mean he's under right now? Take him out, now! He's not ready! He'll go crazy, he'll die –"

"Now, now, Kayla," her father said, the picture of serenity. "I'm sure you are on the verge of speeding here right now, ready to save him from our utter savagery and, let's see, what did you call it? Gross disregard for human life, yes, that's right. What a noble little girl you are."

The condescension in his voice only made her angrier. "Dad, this isn't about me, this is about Nate. You have to stop the session! He's not one of you! He can't handle it!"

"If you're going to get all upset like this, I'm hanging up on you. Only Assassins and savages lose control of their emotions. You need to be reasonable. His DNA is worth far more than his contributions to this company, I can assure you."

 _But he's worth something to me_. He owed her a dinner date, a salsa dance in the parking lot, a mojito with a lime slice, and a piece of her heart. "You can't do this, Dad. I'm coming to get him, and you can't stop me."

"I have a variety of security measures that say I can."

"Well, I'm coming anyway. And if security doesn't let me in, then I'm killing them, Templar or not."

His deep sigh crackled over the speakers. "Kayla, will you agree to stop this nonsense if I promise to take him out the moment he shows any sign of negative effects?"

"No! That's not enough!"

"Then we're done talking. Call me when you're finished with this little tantrum of yours, won't you?"

"Fuck you," Kayla said.

The line beeped. He had hung up.

Kayla stared at the road, and weighed her options. She knew where one Animus was kept, but she had no guarantee that Nate would be there, because there were probably other facilities that had them – and her father, knowing she might come for him, would almost certainly have picked one she wasn't aware of. And even if she could find the right facility, it would be swarming with security guards and Templars, and outfitted with state-of-the-art Abstergo sensor technology – hardly an easy place to infiltrate.

 _What if I can hack him out?_ The thought was intriguing, but then she dismissed it. The Animus had security technology that could make the most stalwart cracker weep, and she had only ever hacked into old computers with mothballed firewalls or unpatched exploits.

Feeling hopeless, she reached for her phone, with a vague urge to text Nate one last time. There was nothing she could do to save him; all she could hope was that he'd arrive intact to work tomorrow.

And then she saw a new text hovering on her screen, waiting for a response. It was from a familiar number, and the content was characteristically brief; it simply asked one question.

 _Nathan Rolding is his name?_

Kayla took a slow breath. Then she pulled into a parking lot and tapped out a message: _Yes._

The reply was prompt. _Want some help?_

 _Can you get him out?_

 _If you let me._

 _Don't do anything stupid. He can't know it was you._

 _He won't._

Kayla set down the phone with shaking hands. She had no idea what she'd just agreed to, but it was nothing good. But if it could give her Nate back, it was worth it. It was worth bringing a little chaos back into her father's perfectly ordered, tidy universe where no one mattered and everything worked towards the impossible utopia in the distance.

She was Kayla Giordano, the Templar, the daughter of the Red Crow. She was heir to more power than anyone knew what to do with. The black mantle for which her father was so famous, each of its feathers dipped in Assassin blood, would sit on her shoulders one day. And so it would be murder – nay, suicide – if anyone found out about the secret little phone number she kept with her, connected to a man who could do anything, be anything, go anywhere. If anyone knew about the Assassin she kept in her back pocket, it would be the end of both of them. And so they had an uneasy truce: he did favors for her, she did favors for him. Little things, documents stolen, files copied onto thumb drives and dropped into trash cans. And in exchange, he worked miracles.

But of course, no one could ever find out, and they never would. Kayla pulled into the driveway of her apartment complex, parked the car, and headed inside with trepidation. The whole thing was out of her hands now, as it always was; much as she quietly resented the loss of independence, she liked it that way, sometimes. She was much happier making video games, going on El Salvadorean restaurant dates, and dancing in salsa clubs than getting involved in that dark world right under her fingertips, hiding in the very code she wrote. Hiding the way Assassins and Templars did best.

In plain sight.

She stepped into her apartment and flicked on the lights. "I'm home," she called, to no one in particular. The place looked empty at first, but the television was on, the litter box had been disturbed recently, and there was something cooking in the microwave, which told her there was a human occupant here – not to mention a very spoiled cat.

Her brother glanced up from his perch on the couch, then down at his laptop. Beside him, an orange-and-white cat meowed imperiously, as though scolding her for being late.

"Nice to see you, Franklin." Kayla knelt down to ruffle the cat's ears, then smiled warmly at the hunched-over man sitting beside him. "How was your day, Ben?"

He shrugged vaguely, tapping on his laptop. This wasn't unusual; her brother hadn't spoken to her, or anyone, for a very long time.

"Well, I had a good day. Lots of code, mostly." Kayla tossed her purse onto the easy chair, then plopped down on the couch beside him, peering over his shoulder. "What are you up to? Composing again?"

He nodded. Kayla squinted at the screen, trying to read the notes he was carefully placing on the staff; it looked like a three-step waltz, with frequent accidentals and key changes. It looked horrendously complicated, but she had gotten used to that sort of thing with her brother.

"You'll have to play it for me when you're done." She glanced at the television; it was turned to a classical music channel. "Mind if I watch the news?"

He shook his head, so she picked up the clicker and flicked through a few channels. She was trying very hard not to think about Nate, and what he must be going through right now; surely he was suffering, and scared. If her Assassin couldn't save him…

But there was nothing she could do, as usual. Hating herself, she turned off the television and leaned back on the couch, closing her eyes. "I talked to Dad today. He asked about you." He hadn't, of course, but she didn't want Ben to know that. "I said you were doing just fine, and I was, too."

Silence, as usual. Ben tapped away on his computer.

"Of course, work is hard. Work is always hard." She massaged her forehead with her thumbs. "And I'm just so damn tired, all the time. Dealing with Dad, and work, and everything –"

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she scrambled to grab it so fast that she nearly hurled it across the room. Ben looked at her in surprise as she tapped out her keycode and unlocked her phone, heart racing. _Please be Nate please be Nate please be him –_

It wasn't from Nate. It was from her father, and it was one line. Simple, straightforward and to the point.

 _We need to talk._

Kayla blew out a slow breath. "Ahhh, shit." This was not what she'd been hoping for. "Uh – Ben, I have to take a really important call. Please don't disturb me while I'm making it, okay? I need privacy."

Ben nodded, and hunched back over his computer.

Kayla rose from the couch and walked into the bathroom. She shut the door, locked it, and only then did she call her father for the second time that day. This time he picked up on the first ring.

"Kayla," he said, and she was shocked to hear joy in his voice. "Kayla, my dear, we've made a tremendous discovery. You need to come to Abstergo, now."

"What? But Dad –"

"We've found an Assassin we've been seeking for a very long time. This could change everything. Come to the office right now. Come alone." And he hung up.

Kayla stood there, frozen. Part of her was uneasy, hearing her father so happy; that couldn't mean anything good. But he would hardly sound gleeful if he had just killed her friend, would he? Did that mean Nate was still alive?

She left the bathroom and grabbed her purse. "Ben, I'm going into the office. It's a work emergency. Can I trust you to make dinner and watch Franklin while I'm gone?"

Silence. She heard the keyboard tapping in the living room.

"Can I trust you to watch Franklin?" she amended.

Ben gave her a thumbs-up from the couch.

"Good. Don't burn the place down or anything."

She had no idea what she would find once she got there. It sounded like her father had found some rare Assassin bloodline in her friend, some Assassin they had never seen before. But why would that be the cause for so much jubilation? What could Nate's ancestors be hiding?

Only one explanation lingered in her mind, terrifying and appealing all at once.

 _Have they found a Piece of Eden?_

It was what the Templars spoke of in whispers, during secret meetings under candlelight. The legendary Pieces of Eden, the artifacts of an ancient civilization that could work wonders and bring about the order the Templars craved. Some could control people, others could heal; some were even said to grant eternal life, or turn the tides of war. And there were rumors of other kinds of Pieces not yet discovered, pieces like clocks and cloaks and spyglasses and satchels, pieces that lurked in the memories of ancient Assassins from a forgotten age. And these were what men like Kayla's father sought, when they placed "volunteers" in the Animus to extract their memories. These were the ultimate prizes.

And it sounded like her father might have found one.

Kayla hoped not, as she pulled out of the driveway and headed back to Abstergo. She hoped not, because deep down, far past the barricades of the Templar philosophies and maxims that had been drilled into her all her life, past the histories and bloodshed she had been forced to witness in her childhood so she would be hardened and cynical as an adult – there, in that festering darkness and chaos beneath all the light and order, was the smallest seed of doubt. It was this seed that had led her to cooperate with her secret Assassin instead of killing him, and guided her to give him information that would, in some small way, injure the corporation that might as well be screaming "we're all Templars" from its rooftops. It was this seed that tore her apart inside, and made her question where she really belonged. But most of all, it was this seed that whispered to her, and gave her dreams, long after her disastrous dive into her ancestors' memories had planted it in her and let it take root.

Nate was right, in his innocent guessing. She had used the Animus, and she had used it to venture somewhere in her DNA that she should never have gone.

And it had left that seed in her soul that refused to die.

 _You are not a Templar_ , it whispered. _And you know it._

But she wasn't an Assassin, either. So where did she really belong? In some myriad, grey space in the middle, between both of them? Had anyone ever existed there? Surely they had, and yet her memories were strangely devoid of these undecided men and women – either you were an Assassin, or you were a Templar. There seemed to be no in-between.

And yet her soul whispered.


	4. Metal and Leather

_Memories syncing…_

 _10%..._

 _56%..._

 _The grass is cold under my feet. Freezing, in fact. It must be close to winter, but not quite… that awkward time just after the rain but just before the snow. The dewdrops cling to each blade of grass beneath me, perfectly rendered and pure. I look down at them, and then I look up at the sky, grey and clotted and thick with clouds. I don't know this sky, or this grass. And yet it feels… familiar. Why is that?_

 _I can't remember, and it scares me. I look around, getting my bearings; and then I realize my body doesn't move the way I remember. I feel… thicker, stronger, powerful. Everything is different from what I remember, but there's this niggling feeling that I've been here before, done this all before. And yet for some reason I don't feel quite sure of myself, as though I don't quite know what to do. What am I doing here, I wonder – what is my place in this world? I know I was brought here for a reason, but none of this looks or feels like home, not this sky or this grass or this cool breeze in my hair. I don't remember any of this. When did I put on these boots, and where did these clothes come from? Why is there an itchy feeling in my head and a burning sensation in my lungs? When did I get two inches taller, and why, when I clear my throat and cough a few times, do my vocal chords sound thick and brassy, like organ pipes?_

 _It's all frightening, confusing, unreal. I feel like I don't belong in this body, or in this world, but there's nothing I can do about it now. I'm afraid, suddenly – intensely so. This isn't right, none of it is. My body is not my own, and its sensations and needs are strange to me. What am I doing inside of it? Why am I here?_

 _"Stay calm." The voice filters from somewhere far away. "You're still syncing. It's going to be disorienting at first."_

 _"Where am I?" My voice feels strange in my throat, far deeper than I remember. And since when did I have an accent? "What's going on?"_

 _"Just relax."_

 _"Get me out of here." I'm frightened now, genuinely scared. "Get me out. I don't belong here. What the hell is going on?"_

 _"Relax. It'll make the process easier if you don't panic."_

 _Well, that ship has definitely sailed. I try to take deep gasps of air, but my lungs and throat are not my own, and that makes the act of breathing disturbing instead of comforting. This is not my body. So how did I get in it? Who put me here? And how do I get back?_

 _"You're almost synced now," the disembodied voice says. "Can you walk?"_

 _"I don't know."_

 _"Try."_

 _I make a valiant effort to move my strange legs, but they won't budge; they feel heavy, weighted down, like pillars of wet concrete. "I can't."_

 _"Harder. You need to believe they're yours."_

 _"You are truly the paragon of advice-giving, O Distant Voice of God." The witticism slips out before I can stop it, and it makes me laugh in my strange new voice. There's the stupid me I remember._

 _My observer is not pleased. "Walk, Nathan."_

 _"Fine, fine." I try again, and then stumble in surprise as my legs jump into motion; I'm so much stronger than I'm used to, and the abrupt burst of power makes me fall on my face into the grass. I'm sure I am truly impressing her. "Mio dio, che cigno grazioso sono," I say into the grass, and then frown. Since when did I speak Italian?_

 _The voice sounds amused now. "Get up. You're almost synced."_

 _"Wonderful." I struggle to my feet, brushing grass off my clothes. Every movement feels so graceful, lithe, like a jungle cat; it feels like I've been operating on low power all my life, and now someone has flicked the switch to put me in turbo. How the hell did that happen? I'm an awkward dork, not an athlete. And I still have several questions about the Italian. "Can you kindly tell me what's going on now?"_

 _"Easy," the voice says. "Take it slow. You'll need some time to adjust before we start a sequence."_

 _"What are you talking about?" My voice still sounds odd, but I'm getting used to these rich vocal chords. And now it appears that, against all logic and common sense and my understanding of how the world around me works, I have transformed from a dorky computer programmer into a rugged Italian god. I'm not sure whether to hate or thank whoever worked that miracle. "What did you do to me?"_

 _"You're walking and talking, and the language and personality are starting to bleed over. That's a good sign." I can hear distant movements, shuffling and murmured voices. "Let's start you in a memory."_

 _"Wait –"_

The sunset bloomed over the hills in the distance, spreading a dim orange light over Italy. It bled over the little town nestled in the valleys, tinging the villagers with light; the cobblestones glowed like embers under Nathan's feet as he stood in the street between winding rows of houses and storefronts, speechless, trying very hard to process everything that had just happened. Where the hell was he?

He looked at the villas around him, bursting with flowers and colorful fabrics. This place was so familiar, but he was sure he'd never been here before. Why did the air smell like that, so fresh and clean? For some reason he thought it would be more… chemical, polluted. But it was so pure and thin, and he took a slow breath, acclimating his lungs to this new climate with its new scents and sights.

 _I must have amnesia_. It was the only explanation that made sense. He didn't remember who he was, or how he'd gotten here, or what this little town was called. He must have hit his head, like in the movies. What else could explain his confusion? He tried to recall his name, his birthday, anything, but it all came up blank.

"Corvo!"

He turned, blinking. A woman was weaving down the cobblestone road towards him, smiling. He didn't recognize her, but something in the back of his mind bleated, _sister, sister_. Did he have a sister? He must, because she had stopped in front of him and was folding her arms, smiling. "You're late, _fratello_. The food is getting cold."

His voice rumbled out of his throat like a train engine, far deeper than he was accustomed to, speaking words he did not consciously want to say. "Only because you stole my horse, _sorella_."

"Valore? She's just fine." His sister chuckled. "Fast, though. I can see why you like her. Come on, let's eat and then we can catch up."

 _Corvo_ , he thought, falling into step behind her as she led him down the street. _That's my name. Corvo._ It rang true, and with it a memory. _Yes, I remember now. Corvo Bottitelli di San Giorgino. I'm from this town. It's just outside Florence, where…_ His memory faltered again. _I don't know why, but I feel like something important is there. There's something about Florence that I need to remember. But I don't remember what._

Piece by piece, his memories were coming together, albeit in frustratingly small chunks. And there were still so many gaps, missing pieces that taunted him. What was his sister's name? How did he instinctively know what to say to her, even though he hadn't remembered he had a horse or a sister until just now? And back to that first question, the most important one of all: What on earth was going on here?

His sister led him into a villa, a sleepy little home with red carnations blooming from the flowerpots. "So, have you heard any news from the front?"

"No." Somehow he knew what to say again, even though the words baffled him. "It's been quiet since the festival. I haven't gotten any new orders."

"Figures." She set a plate of chicken and spices on the table. "Eat, _fratello_. You're probably famished from your journey."

He sat down, and lifted his arm to pick up the fork. And then he stopped. There was something strange on his arm, a thick gauntlet of some kind – metal, leather and steel. He turned it over slowly, trying to figure out what it was.

"You have a good blade." His sister sat beside him and cut into her chicken. "It has tasted the blood of tyrants. I wish I could have one like it."

"The Brotherhood will grant you a blade, Mila. I'm sure of it." There – that was her name. "You need only be patient."

"I've been plenty patient." She took a bite, chewing with sudden anger. "They don't know what I'm capable of. I've trained with you, bled with you. The only reason I'm not an Assassin is because they can't see past a pretty face. I don't want to be a courtesan, I want to be a killer."

Corvo's fork wavered halfway to his mouth. "Assassins are not mere murderers, _sorella_."

"Aren't you?" Her eyes drilled into his. "You don't consider driving a blade into a man's throat and watching him choke on his own insides murder?"

"Murder requires malicious intent."

"What do you call hunting them down like game birds, waiting for the kill? Surely you relish it. Surely it's just so satisfying, to watch them die."

Corvo spoke carefully. "I think the reason you are not an Assassin is because you would take the role a bit too… violently."

"Don't lecture me about violence, _fratello_." Her eyes were cold now, all sisterly warmth gone. "You've done plenty of it yourself."

He stared at her, and then down at the chicken, and then back at her. "I suspected," he said. "For a long time, I suspected. But I never let myself believe it from you."

"Oh, you knew, did you? With your omniscient Assassin eyes, did you see me turning?" She laughed. "You were smart not to eat the chicken."

Corvo lunged, but she was faster. Her hands grabbed his wrists and threw him to the ground; he rolled just in time for her to smash a chair where he had been a second earlier. He struggled to his feet, every sense sharpening in preparation for battle; she stood there, laughing, drawing a butcher's knife out of her bodice.

"Oh, I have been waiting for this," she said.

"You were never as strong as me," Corvo said, but he heard the uncertainty in his voice. She was a year older, but they had always been equally matched, one never quite getting the edge over the other; they ran as fast as each other, fought the same, plotted the same. And how could he kill his own sister, Templar or otherwise? "You wouldn't dare kill me," he tried, not really believing it.

"You'd be surprised." She slashed at him with the knife, and he dodged aside. They circled each other slowly, brother and sister, Assassin and Templar. There was a palpable atmosphere of dread in the air; one was coldly prepared for this conflict, the other utterly taken off guard. The quiet town around them seemed to be holding its breath as they sized each other up, looking for weaknesses, calculating odds the way they had both been taught from birth. It could go either way now, and if it didn't go his way, she might find out about Florence, and then –

God, why couldn't he remember what was in Florence? What was so important there?

Corvo suddenly knew she had the upper hand, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a flicker of fear. This was not how he had wanted things to go. He had known this was coming, but he'd hoped it wasn't too late to catch her before she turned, talk some sense into her… but here she was now, grinning fiendishly at him with the pleasure of the kill to come, and he did not know what to say except, "You're out of your mind, _sorella_."

"I could say the same about you, working for them." She danced forward, feet moving smoothly as she jabbed at him once, twice; he ducked under the first strike and slapped the second aside with his blade, the metal woven into the gauntlet deflecting it like a shield. He could not bring himself to fight back, not yet. "What kind of freedom is it, slaving for unseen masters who tell you to follow your own path – then set it for you and punish you for leaving it?"

"I do follow my own path. It just happens to follow theirs. Can you say the same?" Corvo jumped back as she swung for his abdomen. "You are bound to them now, and they will never let you leave or stray from their path. You have no freedom, either."

"I am working for the greater good. What are you working for? Pain and suffering and death. How sad that must be, to think yourself the hero of this story."

"I am the hero," he said. "You're the villain. You are the one who causes suffering. Do you not see what the Templars do to the common people, treating them like garbage and killing them by the thousands? That is no great good. Those are not the actions of a savior of humanity."

"Maybe from your point of view." She shrugged. "But history will judge you differently. You'll see, _fratello_. You'll all see."

And now he could not hold back any longer. He lashed out, Hidden Blade snapping loose; it clashed against her knife with a loud scream of metal, and then they were striking and stabbing at each other back and forth across the dining room like deadly adders, each move precise and calculated. She hadn't lost her edge, he realized as he jumped back and felt the cool _whish_ as her blade just missed his neck. She was as good as she'd always been, and that meant he was in trouble.

Her teeth flashed white as she struck at him, again and again, relentless; she was grinning, exhilarated by the fight as he blocked and countered and fought like a cornered animal. "You're good, _fratello_ ," she said, panting as she struck and he parried with a screech of steel, "but I'm better. I always was, and now I can prove it."

And he realized he was getting tired, his movements slowing. He wasn't fast enough to block her next swipe, and he yelled in pain as the butcher's knife dug into his side, cutting through him like meat; he staggered back, clutching his hip and feeling the first blood roll down his fingers and dry against his palm. Oh God, the pain was horrifying, blinding; it stabbed into him like a hot poker, drowning out everything. He swallowed a scream, realizing dimly that this wasn't right, he was supposed to win this fight, wasn't he? Why was he losing?

Mila smiled, her face alight with triumph. "If you surrender now, I might end you quickly."

He breathed deeply, trying to focus. His vision was blurring, and when she raised the blood-soaked blade for a fresh blow, he could do nothing do defend himself; every muscle felt weak, his strength waning. The next strike cut into his collarbone, slicing him shoulder to shoulder; he collapsed, and her foot pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the floor and sending fresh waves of pain rolling through him.

Her voice was cold, unsympathetic. "I'm sorry it had to end this way, _fratello_. Rest well."

White-hot pain bit into his neck, and then –

He opened his eyes, screaming so loudly he tore his throat; oh God, the pain was still there, wracking his body as though he was being stabbed by a thousand tiny knives. He twisted, trying dimly to escape, and then realized he was not in the villa anymore – and the air smelled chemical again, and the power in his body was gone. He was staring up at a tiled ceiling, and a frightened glance down at himself revealed that he was lying in some kind of machine, trapped under a glass canopy that buzzed with alerts and loading bars, his wrists and ankles secured in metal restraints. He took deep, shaky breaths, trying to process what was going on and failing. Who was doing this to him? How did he keep switching bodies like this?

"Oh my God, Nate." The voice came from somewhere above him, familiar and fearful. "Are you okay?" Then, to someone he couldn't see, "What the fuck were you thinking? He wasn't ready for that! You could have driven him insane!"

Who was Nate? He took slow breaths, trying to calm himself down as the pain prickled away. Where was Mila, and San Giorgino, and Valore? Where was this place? He blinked to clear the haze in his eyes, and saw a woman peering worriedly down at him. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place her.

"Nate," she said. "Look at me. Can you see me? Just breathe."

" _Dove sono_?" His voice cracked. " _Quello che é successo_?"

"Relax. Look at my eyes." She took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "It's okay. Do you remember where you are?"

No, he didn't. He looked around at the white, sterile environment, then at the machine he was strapped into, a strange amalgamation of glass and metal. How had he gotten here? It felt like he was supposed to remember, but yet again, the memories were escaping him.

"The Bleeding Effect," someone said. "It's strong with him. He's confused."

"Why do you think that is?" the woman snapped. "You kidnapped him and threw him in without any mental preparation! You're lucky he can still talk!"

"It doesn't matter." A smooth, calm voice, male this time. "This is a great discovery, Kayla. We've never found someone with a strong Bottitelli bloodline before. Now we can find the Piece he hid from us all those years ago."

Corvo, Nate. Which was he? He tugged at the clasps on his wrists, trying to free his hands and failing. He was Corvo, wasn't he? Then what was he doing in this weak body, without his weapons? He wanted his Hidden Blade and his sword and his horse, and he wanted to go back to San Giorgino, not this cold, frightening place with strange people in it. _Put me back, put me back!_

"It's okay, Nate." Kayla looked at the man, who was lazily studying his fingernails. "Dad, give him a break. Please. Until he comes back to himself. Otherwise we're going to lose him."

"And why should that matter? If he becomes Corvo, all the better. We can interrogate him about the Piece." The man looked calmly at the technician. "Put him back in. Try the fight again. He needs to win."

"No!" Kayla jumped to her feet. "Just give him five minutes! You'll drive him insane!"

"Enough, Kayla. I brought you here to celebrate our great victory, not badger me and hinder my progress."

"Activating the sequence again," the technician said, typing on a keyboard. "He needs to get this right to achieve synchronization. We'll keep trying until he does."

"Excellent." The man chuckled, long and slow. "We'll find your secrets yet, Corvo Bottitelli. Whether you like it or not."

And then –

The sunset rose over San Giorgino, painting the white villas red. Corvo stood in the street, just as before, the cobblestones warm under his feet; but this time, he remembered, and was afraid. Now he had a vague idea of what was going on, and it terrified him. They wanted him to win the fight, these strange people who were forcing him to relive his memories. He had to win, but how? And what for? They had been looking for a Piece, whatever that meant. Where was it? He racked his memory, but he couldn't remember what they were talking about, or why they wanted it so badly. Yet somehow, he felt that he had to keep it away from them. It felt important, for some reason he couldn't explain. But why?

 _No matter._ He flexed his arm, watching the Hidden Blade glimmer on his wrist. _I am Corvo Bottitelli, and I will finish what I started._

 _Your name is Nathan!_ A distant voice screamed in his head, loud and panicked. _You're not Corvo, you're Nathan! Don't you remember?_

He shoved it down. He was Corvo, of course he was; he had always been. It didn't seem strange anymore.

And here was Mila, coming to meet him. "Corvo!" She stopped in front of him, smiling, the same as before. "You're late, _fratello_. The food is getting cold."

He smiled back, but he was guarded now; he knew what was coming for him when they reached the villa. " _Si_. I apologize."

"No worries." She waved a hand. "Come on, let's eat and we can catch up."

He followed her to the villa, debating how to play it this time. Couldn't he just kill her now, while her back was turned? He had to find some way. Perhaps if he stabbed her while she was fetching the chicken, or tripped her as she sat down…

But then he wondered why he was so set on killing her. Maybe he could just escape, get out of the conflict to fight another day. Would these unseen puppeteers be satisfied by that ending, or would they force him to finish her off? He didn't know what they wanted from him. How was any of this going to solve anything?

"Here you go, _fratello_." She led him into the dining room and set down a plate of chicken for him, same as before. "You must be hungry from your journey."

"Thank you." He sat down, warily. Now that he knew what was going to happen, he was tense, ready for the fight to come; his Hidden Blade felt warm on his arm. "How is Valore?"

"Oh, she's just fine. I may have borrowed her." Mila chuckled. "Sorry about that, I'm sure you were worried. She's tied out back."

" _Bene_." He cut into his chicken, trying to steer the conversation to casual topics. What if he could avoid the fight altogether, by never bringing up their alliances? "The weather's been nice."

"Yes, it has. Good for the crops, I imagine." Mila looked out the window at the sunset. "Have you heard anything from the Brotherhood?"

 _Avoid, avoid!_ "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Why?" She smiled wryly. "Something you've been hiding from me, _fratello_?"

"Of course not." He pretended to be very focused on cutting the chicken. "I would never hide anything from you. Would you hide anything from me, _sorella_?"

"No," she said, but there was knowing laughter in her eyes as she took a bite. "Never."

Well, this was going well so far. "Any gossip in town?"

"Not particularly." She shrugged. "It's not very exciting here."

"Sometimes that's a good thing."

"You haven't touched your food," she said suddenly. "Is something wrong with it?"

He looked guiltily at his plate. "No, of course not. I'm, er – not very hungry."

She smiled, but there was an edge to her voice when she said, "I didn't poison it, you know. You could at least try a bite."

"Of course. I'm being rude, aren't I?" He speared a piece on his fork. "You must have put quite a lot of time into making it."

"I did," she said, watching him with hawklike focus.

It was now or never. He made as if to bite – and then in one quick motion flipped the table. The food and cutlery went flying, dishes shattering on the floor; Mila had one second to yell in surprise before he lunged, driving his Hidden Blade into her stomach and tackling her to the ground.

And just like that, it was over.

He laid her gently on the floor as she went into her death spasms, clutching uselessly at the hole in her torso; her mouth opened and closed, like a fish. Her eyes stared up at him, wide and panicked, as he held her head in his hand, so it wouldn't hit against the floor. "Shhh," he said, and took her hand in his own. "Rest now, and do not be afraid. You will be at peace soon."

She gritted her teeth, blood leaking from her mouth. "I'm not scared."

"I know," he said. "You never were."

" _Mio fratello_." She groaned, spasmed once more, then went still; a final breath hissed out of her, and her hand slipped limply from his own. He gently closed her eyes with his fingers, then kissed her forehead.

" _Requiescat in pace, mia sorella_ ," he said, and then the memory faded around him, the villa crashing down into whiteness.

He opened his eyes, gasping; it felt like he'd just surfaced from deep water, his head ringing. Everything was blurry at first, but he squinted, and things came into focus; he saw Kayla hovering above him, staring at him in concern, and beside her Stefan Giordano, smiling coldly. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he said, utterly unmoved. "She was easy to kill after all."

No, she hadn't been. The pain of it still lingered even after the memory was gone. He closed his eyes, feeling tears sting his eyes as he dimly comprehended what he'd just done; he had killed his own sister. He'd had to do it, but that didn't make it right.

"Nathan," Kayla said. "Do you remember your name? Do you know what year it is?"

Who was this Nathan they kept talking about? And what was that odd, choppy language they were speaking? " _Non capisco_ ," he said, tugging impatiently on his restraints. " _Lasciama andare_."

"Oh no," Kayla said. "You really did get the Bleeding Effect hard."

"No matter," Stefan said. "He's synchronizing wonderfully. Let's keep this up. Next sequence, please."

"Got it," the technician said, and starting tapping on the – keyboard? Was that the word for it? Corvo stared at it, and suddenly realized he had no idea what it was, or what this machine he was strapped into did. When had this technology come into existence? The most complicated machine he'd ever seen was a printing press, but these modern, magical devices defied all explanation.

 _Mio dio_ , he thought. _Have I traveled to the future? If only my Mentor could see this._

The technician frowned. "That's strange."

"What?" Stefan turned to her. "Aren't you supposed to be starting a sequence?"

"Well, I'm trying. It's not letting me." She tapped urgently on the keyboard. "What's going on? I'm getting locked out of the system…"

"What did you do?" Stefan hissed, rounding on Kayla with fury in his eyes. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I didn't do anything!" Kayla stammered, but there was a look in her eyes that told Corvo she was lying. He had always been good at seeing through disguises, masks and lies – it was part of his training. "I don't know what's happening –"

"Sir!" the technician said. "The Animus – someone's hijacking it –"

With a quiet whir, the machine powered down, and Corvo's restraints snapped open – and with a loud pop, all the lights in the building turned off. In an instant, everything was dark as night.

And darkness was where Corvo worked best.

He lunged off the table and spun, crane-kicking the technician in the small of her collarbone – his Eagle Vision outlined her in the shadows. She went down like a sack of potatoes, and he whirled towards Stefan next, but the Templar was ready for him. His savage kick at the man was seized in incredibly strong fingers, and then Corvo was thrown to the ground violently, cracking his head on the floor. He stared up at the ceiling, dazed and gasping for breath.

"Now, now," the Red Crow said, silkily. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Corvo Bottitelli. You don't want someone to get hurt."

" _Templare_ ," Corvo spat.

"Good dog." Stefan kicked him in the abdomen as he tried to rise, and he went sprawling, hissing in pain; his body was so much weaker than he was used to, and his training had not prepared him for this situation, battling in a time he didn't understand against an enemy whose tactics and fighting style were alien to him. "Now roll over."

"You first," Kayla said, and then Corvo heard a deafening silence; prone on the floor as he was, he only saw dim flickers of them in the darkness, his Eagle Vision faltering in his pain. What was going on?

"Oh, Kayla," Stefan said at last, and Corvo could hear his soft laugh in the silence. "I always wondered if they had drawn you in. You can't challenge me, either. Did you really think I'd ever let you get better than me?"

"I'm not going to fight you," Kayla said. "We are."

Corvo sensed his signal, and scrambled to his feet, just in time for Kayla to dart forward. Stefan blocked her first blow lazily, as though this was all just a show put on for his amusement; but then Corvo came at him from the side, and his calm smile faded into a scowl as he battled both of them at once, moving in a blur as he deflected Kayla's roundhouse punch and ducked under Corvo's fierce jabs, trying to sneak attacks in and failing as one of them caught his fists and forced him to contend with them alone. Sweat beaded on his brow as he blocked Corvo's kick, but moved too slow for Kayla's left hook and took it in the throat; he stumbled back, wheezing and rubbing his Adam's apple.

Kayla raised her fists, grinning, as Corvo moved to stand beside her. "What's this I see? The Crow losing his feathers already?"

"How very _noble_ ," he spat, rubbing his flushed neck. "Two on one, is that it? Look how very _honorable_ Assassins are."

"Don't bait me. You made me show my hand in the first place, taking Nathan like that."

Corvo frowned. Really, who was this Nathan she kept bringing up? It sounded like someone important, but he couldn't recall why it rang a bell in the back of his mind. Probably nothing.

"We're leaving," Kayla said. "I'm getting him away from you. You'll never touch that Piece if I have anything to say about it."

"You're not going anywhere," Stefan said, and started forward, shaking out his fists for a second round. Corvo raised his own, ready to tangle –

The lights blazed back on, searing into his eyes. All of them stumbled, agonized; their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the sudden burning brightness stabbed into Corvo's eyes like daggers. But he was the first to recover, and took his moment, darting forward to aim a punch at Stefan's face. The Templar caught his wrist and twisted hard, and he heard bones crack; Corvo roared his fury and pain and kicked blindly upwards, his foot driving into the bottom of Stefan's chin. The Templar stumbled back, snarling with pain and clutching his jaw; blood dripped from his mouth, the impact having driven his teeth into his tongue. Corvo backed away as well, holding his broken wrist and trying to ignore the pain that rippled through it.

"I'll find you." Stefan choked it out as he surveyed them both, his mouth twisted in a snarl of pain; he looked even more frightening with blood oozing cherry-red from his lips, giving him the look of a deranged cannibal. "You can run, but you can't hide. Scuttle off if you want, but I'll find you. I'll always find you."

Kayla seized Corvo's good wrist, tugging him towards the door. "Come on. Hurry."

"Run," Stefan spat through a mouthful of blood, watching them make a mad dash for the exit. "Run, Kayla. I'll come for you, and you won't be able to hide. No one escapes me, not even you."

They sprinted down the hallway, Kayla keeping a bone-tight grip on his arm; her face was white, panic in her eyes as she yanked him towards the doors. "Come on. Come on come _on_. We need to go _now_."

Corvo understood her now, for whatever reason; he had no choice but to let her drag him onwards, out into the sunshine. The brightness stung his eyes, and he winced as she pulled him across the parking lot, towards a great machine that he vaguely remembered as being called a car. "Where are we going?" The English was seeping back into him, bit by bit, but he couldn't remember why he knew it.

"Somewhere safe. Away from him." Kayla threw open the passenger door and shoved him inside. "Sit. Hurry."

He sat, cradling his broken wrist, and watched as she ran around the car and jumped into the driver's seat. "What's going on?"

"I'll explain everything. But first we need to get out of here." She screeched out of the parking lot, brakes howling in protest as she shot away from the building and onto the road. Corvo watched her operate the machine, fascinated. "Please tell me you still remember you're Nate."

"Who?"

"Jesus, Nathan, you're really far gone, aren't you? Come on, you have to remember. Your name is Nathan Rolding."

He frowned. "My name is Corvo."

"No, it's not." She looked at him fervently as they sped down the highway. "It's not. You have to remember. I need you to be okay."

"I'm all right." He rubbed his broken wrist gingerly. "But I need to set this."

"We'll take care of that." Kayla blew out a slow breath. "You're really telling me that you're Corvo Bottitelli? The Assassin of San Giorgino?"

"Yes," he said, warily. "I've always been, haven't I?"

"No. You haven't. Aren't you wondering how you got here?"

"I assumed the Templars had some kind of time-bending Piece of Eden, or built some sort of time machine…"

"Time machine. Well, that's one word for it." Kayla sighed. "It's called the Animus. It's a machine that lets a person relive the memories of their ancestors. But if someone isn't mentally prepared for it, like y – like Nate… they can lose themselves. Become their ancestors. And that's happened to y – to Nate. You think you're Corvo now, but you're really Nate. You're living in his body. He's a person just like you were, who was thrown into the Animus against his will. And I really hope he'll come back to you eventually."

Corvo was quiet for a moment, processing this. "So this really isn't my body," he said at last. "That's why I feel so weak, and out of practice. This isn't where I'm supposed to be."

"No, it's not. But since you're here, maybe you can help me." She eyed him. "Do you remember where you hid the Piece of Eden my father wanted?"

"Your father?" Oh. Well, that would explain a lot. "That Templar – he was your father?"

"Yes, unfortunately. His name is Stefan Giordano, but they call him the Red Crow. He's very dangerous, like you saw. He thinks he's stronger than he is, of course – hubris has hindered many a Templar – but you saw how we could take him, when we worked together. But he's still dangerous, and we can't underestimate him. He'll be looking for us now, and you. He wants the Piece of Eden you hid. So tell me, where is it?"

Corvo took a slow breath. He had his memories now; he remembered, but he wasn't sure he could trust her, not yet. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I still don't know who you are." He studied her, searching for signs of betrayal, looking for what he had seen in his sister. "You helped me, but that might have been part of the plan all along. I won't tell you until I know you can be trusted."

"So you do know."

" _Si_. I know."

"Can you at least tell me what it is?"

"No."

"Is it an Apple?"

"I will not tell you. This pursuit of yours is fruitless."

"Oh, fine. But it was worth a shot." She pulled into the parking lot of an apartment complex and shut the engine off. "Come on, Na – Corvo. I have to pack some things and grab my brother, and then we're out of here."

"Are you an Assassin?" he asked, getting out of the car. "Or a Templar?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm both." She shrugged as she headed for the door. "Do I have to pick a side?"

"Perhaps not." He watched her buzz to unlock the front doors. "But sometimes being impartial is a choice in itself, and not always a good one."

"Listen, I'd love to debate philosophy with you, but we have places to go, people to meet and a Piece of Eden to get before the Templars do." She looked back at him as they stepped into the lobby. "You don't want the Templars to get it, do you?"

He didn't, but he wasn't fully convinced she wasn't on their side. "It would… be better for it to stay out of their hands."

"Then help me. Simple as that." She led him to a door and jammed a key into the lock. "Do you have to make it complicated?"

"Maybe not," he said, but his heart was hammering. He still didn't fully understand what was going on, or who this daughter of a Templar was working for, or how he'd gotten stuck in someone else's body hundreds of years in the future. But one thing was clear: the Templars were still active, all these centuries later. The war had not ended in Italy, with the rise of the Master Assassin whose legend was known and repeated by every Assassin then and since. It had not ended with Ezio Auditore da Firenze, his Mentor, one of the greatest Assassins to ever live.

 _Florence_. Now he knew why it was so important. _That's where we hid it, all those years ago. The Piece of Eden_. But if he was in America now, this strange land across the sea – how would he ever get back? And even if he could, what if someone else had gotten there first?

So many questions, not enough answers. He needed to get them from Kayla Giordano, this peculiar woman who called him the wrong name and knew all these things he didn't. It didn't matter if she was Assassin or Templar or neither or otherwise: she was his only ally in this strange new world, and he had no choice but to trust her until he figured out where his Brotherhood had gone in this frightening, Templar-ruled future.

 _But if she turns out to be a traitor…_ If she went the same way as Mila, his sister, his beloved sorella whom he had been forced to trust and forced to kill – well, then she would meet the same fate. He couldn't tolerate another betrayal.

 _One false move, Kayla Giordano. One misstep. I need you for now, but I'll be watching you very closely. You won't get anything past me, I've seen too much and trained with the master of deception. No one gets to fool me anymore._

He would make sure of it.


	5. Feathers and Claws

_A/N: Just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who's been leaving me reviews, favs and follows! You inspire me to keep on writing._

Boris had been having a new dream lately, a strange dream unlike any he'd had before. Usually his slumber was punctuated by terrors and nightmares, flashbacks and broken memories that made him grip Yosof tightly in his sleep for comfort; but this new dream was a soft, prodding thing, brushing him and whispering to him in a language he felt like he should remember, but didn't. It almost felt like there was a presence in the back of his mind, a quiet little thing that hadn't been there before; sometimes silent and watchful, other times prodding him like a thorn. He always tried to find it when he woke in the morning, desperate to know where it was coming from, but by then it was gone, as though it had never been. He only felt it there when he closed his eyes at night, scraping against his brain insistently in his dreams, trying to tell him something he did not understand.

 _Who are you?_ he asked the thorn one night, half-awake and listening to Yosof's peaceful snoring beside him. _What are you doing here?_

The thorn poked him more insistently, but said nothing.

 _Tell me what you are,_ he cried, wanting suddenly to rip it out of him. _What do you want from me?_

It was silent for a long time – and then it slipped into his dozing mind like a thief, soundless, coloring his dreams with visions. He suddenly felt himself falling into a yawing void, a deep and endless darkness into which all things seemed to fade away and die, and then –

An insistent tug on his mind. _Get out of bed._

He obeyed, still dazed, unsure what was going on. Yosof shifted slightly when he left the blankets, one arm searching sleepily for his warmth; Boris stood perfectly still in the middle of the bedroom, now fully entranced, listening to the voice in his mind and hanging on its every word.

 _Go outside,_ it whispered.

He left the farmhouse in his nightclothes, his bare feet cold on the floorboards, and walked out into the dead fields of Ovinkaifeck, the dry soil crunching between his toes. The night air kissed his face like a lover as he stood there, waiting for further instructions.

 _Where is your blade?_ it asked.

He snapped it out with an easy flick of his wrist; the Hidden Blade was strapped to his arm, as it always was. He had been taking it to bed with him lately, in case he was attacked during the night.

 _Find your targets,_ the voice commanded.

He closed his eyes, and his mind awakened. Lights burned in his vision, outlining shapes in the darkness: bright red figures, shining white and gold orbs, telling him where to go. I am an eagle, he thought, in a moment of sudden clarity. I am a bird of prey, and I can see everything.

 _Go,_ the voice ordered, suddenly eager. _Go, and do what you were made for._

He walked towards the golden lights in the distance, his blade cold and shining in the moonlight, his mind blank and emotionless under the voice's alluring thrall. He knew what he had to do; it was in his blood, it burned in his soul like fire. He was a killer, and they were his prey –

 _Wait,_ a new voice screamed in his mind, so loudly that he stumbled in shock. _Wait, don't listen to it! It's got your mind and it's taking you for a joyride, mate! You have to wake up!_

 _Go,_ the commanding voice insisted, speaking pointedly over the new one. _Go, hurry. You know what you have to do._

 _Wake up, mate!_ the voice shouted, and in his growing bewilderment Boris could hear its distinct British accent. _You can resist her if you just wake up! WAKE UP!_

And Boris suddenly felt the void in his mind, the blind obedience, snap off like a switch. He jerked awake, blinking up at the sky, breathing deeply; then he realized where he was, looked down at the unsheathed Hidden Blade on his wrist, and felt his stomach drop. _Oh no. What was I about to do? What the hell just happened to me?_

 _Some bloody mind control happened,_ the British voice in his mind informed him. _Damned if I know how, though. You're lucky you didn't kill any poor innocent blokes before I snapped you out of it._

 _Who are you?_ Boris asked him, bewildered. _Where did you come from?_

 _Not now._ He heard the voice start to fade. _Watch your back, mate. I can't always save you._

 _Wait! You need to explain!_ But the voice was gone, and he was left standing there alone in the night, shivering in the frigid air. He had no idea what had just happened, and he felt drained and dead inside, as though he'd fought some immense mental battle. He dully felt himself slump down to the ground, then flop there like a dead fish, his mind empty; whatever had happened to him, it had left him completely spent. He felt himself slip down into unconsciousness, his last sensation the moonlight shining silver-blue above him.

He lay there for what felt like hours, senseless, until at last the world began to trickle back to him – and with it yet another voice, this one familiar. "Baby, wake up." Someone was slapping his face, shaking him by the shoulders. "You're not dead, you can't be dead, please wake up."

"Mmff." Boris opened his eyes, grimacing as sunlight pierced his brain. "Ow." He dimly registered a wetness down his front and side, and realized he was lying sprawled in the dirt, the mud soaking into his clothes. He must have fallen – had it been minutes ago? Hours? His whole right side ached like he'd been hit by a freight train, and his head pounded sickeningly, sending waves of pain through him. "What – what happened?"

"Oh, thank God." Yosof kissed his forehead, stroking his hair. "You scared me, Boris. I realized you weren't in bed with me when I woke up, so I came out to look for you and I found you lying here. Do you remember what happened to you? Or what you're doing out here?"

No, he didn't remember any of that. His head pounded as he lifted it out of the dirt, struggling to make his eyes focus; he felt sick to his stomach, like he was about to vomit. He made a valiant effort to choke the bile down so he wouldn't throw up all over his boyfriend, but his stomach was churning ominously. "Yosof, you should move."

"Oh shit –" Yosof hastily jumped aside as Boris lost his breakfast. "Oh, sweetie. Are you sick? What happened?"

Boris coughed a few times, his throat burning, and rolled slowly over onto his back, trying to muster the energy to rise and failing. "I don't know."

"You don't think someone poisoned you, do you?" Yosof looked at him fearfully. "Did you eat anything weird yesterday?"

"I don't know." Boris wiped his mouth on his sleeve, shivering violently. "I feel horrible."

"Should I take you to Kronsky or the hospital?" Yosof watched worriedly as Boris struggled to push himself into a sitting position. "I don't know where the closest clinic is. We're kind of in the middle of nowhere."

"I'm fine." He wiped his mouth again, then rose, his legs shaking violently under him; they felt as weak and loose as jelly, but they held. "Where's Kronsky?"

"That's what I was about to ask _you."_ Yosof grabbed him under the armpit, helping him stay upright as he wobbled dangerously. "Easy now. Take it easy. Something must have happened to you, but I don't know what. We need to find Kronsky and ask her."

"Wait." He suddenly remembered standing in the moonlight, his Hidden Blade glowing white. "I came outside to do something. I don't know what, but I was going to do something, and then…" He trailed off helplessly. "I don't remember anything else. I think I passed out."

"That's okay. Maybe you were just sleepwalking," Yosof reasoned, but he kept a firm grip on Boris's arm as he guided him back inside. "Did you have any weird dreams?"

Yes, he'd had a very strange dream. Something about a voice in his head, and red and gold lights, and eagles. He closed his eyes, trying to remember but coming up short. He'd been able to do something, he recalled suddenly, something he'd never been able to do before…

"Come on," Yosof said. "Let's get you cleaned up. You're covered in mud."

"Right." Boris looked sheepishly down at his ruined nightclothes, the edges dripping mud on Kronsky's polished floorboards. The mysteries of his nighttime escapade could wait for now. "I need a shower."

He brushed his teeth, showered luxuriously, and changed into his Assassin robes, the warm black fabric a familiar weight by now. Only when he had shaken off the last vestiges of sleep did he come downstairs, and find Yosof and Kronsky waiting for him.

"There's the sleepyhead," Yosof said. "I told Kronsky about your midnight adventure."

"Tell me, Boris," Kronsky said, studying him keenly. "What led you to go outside? Did you hear a voice, or feel something leading you onward?"

"I think I remember…" The details had started to trickle back to him in the shower. "I heard a voice. Two of them, as a matter of fact. And I had the strangest thing happen…"

The vision flared suddenly in his mind, bright like fire, and he gasped, taking an instinctive step back. "What is it?" Yosof asked, watching him with alarm. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." Boris exhaled slowly, dumbfounded. "Oh my God, I can see _everything."_ Because the world around him was outlined in a bright, glowing silver, tracing the shapes of people and objects clear as day: he could see Kronsky's green form, and Yosof's warm pink glow. The colors must mean something, he thought, but he wasn't sure what. And he could see through the walls, see into a multitude of secret compartments in the walls and floor – trapdoors, trick rugs, keyholes in furniture. He could see Hidden Blades hidden behind paintings, sword-canes disguised as umbrellas, daggers and knives hiding in flowerpots. Clearly Hel Kronsky hadn't gained the title of Master Assassin for nothing; if all those weapons were any indication, she was prepared for anything. "Yosof, I have Eagle Vision!"

" _No way_." Yosof gawked at him, all worry forgotten. "Since when did you have that?"

"I don't know, but it's _amazing."_ Boris touched a hidden compartment in the wall, awed. "This is going to be really useful."

"So." Hel Kronsky smiled. "I see you've found a new power of yours."

"Yes," he said, turning to look at her and feeling the colors fade away; he could turn it off, too, he realized. "Something strange happened to me last night. I don't know how to explain it…"

"Was the voice telling you to kill someone?"

He didn't bother asking how she knew that. "Yes, and…" He looked guiltily at his Hidden Blade, grateful he had managed to fight off the alien influence before he'd done something truly reprehensible. "It tried to get me to kill innocents. Civilians. I fought it off."

We _fought it off,_ the little British voice in his head said pointedly. _You'd be street meat if it weren't for me, mate._

 _Who are you?_ he demanded of it, and it withdrew again, with a glimmer of silent amusement.

"Are you sure it wasn't just a dream?" Kronsky asked.

"I'm sure," he said. It had felt too real for that. "It must have been real."

"Well, it certainly had a physical effect on you." She tapped her fingers on her cane, considering. "But I've never heard of a mind control device that works on Assassins."

"Was it an Apple of Eden?" he ventured. "I know those can control people, so maybe someone used it to try and control me. But I don't know how they got it to work from so far away, or how they found me…"

"It can't have been an Apple," she said firmly. "Even if they could get close enough to try and influence you, dearie, your Assassin heritage protects you fully from an Apple's mental assaults. Your blood might be a bit diluted by time and outcrossing, but it still flows strong in you – strong enough to give you that Eagle Vision of yours."

"Then what was it that attacked me? What else could the Templars have that controls the minds of Assassins? And how did they get it to affect me, when no one's supposed to know where I am?"

"I don't know, dearie." She seemed equally troubled by these questions. "Perhaps it was nothing to do with the Templars at all. There are many powers in this world we don't yet understand." Then, composing herself, "But I think now is a good time for the two of you – and me – to leave Ovinkaifeck. It's clear that we are all no safer here than in the outside world, and I've trained both of you well enough. You're ready for your first mission."

"Do you think I'm ready?" Yosof looked excited by the prospect of testing his new skills. He'd been training diligently alongside Boris, and although he still lacked anything resembling fighting prowess, he could move quietly and do some decent acrobatics. "Am I an Assassin now?"

"Not yet, novice. It's not polite to interrupt your elders." She poked him playfully with her cane. "Now listen closely, both of you. The best thing for you right now is to leave the country, and I know just where to send you."

Boris tried to pay attention as she gave them instructions, but he was fascinated by this new presence in his mind, the one that refused to go away. _Hello,_ he ventured to it.

The presence was silent. Evidently it wasn't in the mood for talking.

"You okay, buddy?" Yosof asked, startling him back to reality. "You went quiet there."

"Sorry." Boris blinked a few times, reorienting himself. "Where did you say we're going?"

"Did you not listen?" Yosof sighed and looked meaningfully at Kronsky. "See how much better of a listener I am? You should promote me for that."

"Not today, I'm afraid," Kronsky chuckled. "But for Boris's sake, I will repeat myself. I'm sending you to Chicago."

"Chicago…" Boris echoed, letting the name roll around his mind in search of something to connect with. Then it came to him with a start. "You're not seriously sending us to America, are you?"

"You heard me," she said serenely. "I'm sending you to meet an operative there. We've caught wind of Abstergo movements in that region, and who better than our newest member to investigate?"

"Wow." Boris had never been to the United States before. "That's going to be a long flight."

"It'll be so exciting!" Yosof said earnestly. "We'll get to see the Sears Tower and the art museum and the natural history museum and the river! And I hear they allow gay marriage there!"

"Oh?" Boris smiled wryly back at him. "Are you planning on getting married to someone, then?"

"Er – no," Yosof said, blushing sheepishly; apparently he hadn't meant to say that. "I guess not. I was just saying…"

"You're adorable when you're backpedaling." But Boris smiled fondly and took his hand, touching the promise ring there; it was the closest they could get to marriage here. America, though, was a different story. _Perhaps…_

But he'd think about that later. Right now he had Assassin business to attend to. He nodded to Kronsky. "Do you have the plane tickets?"

They spent the next few hours making the arrangements, whipping up some sufficiently convincing paperwork and passports, and changing their identities. Boris flattened out his thick Russian accent, while Yosof emphasized his own Indian lilt, and they had to try very hard not to burst into hysterics when they practiced it on each other; they sounded nothing like themselves. "I like hamburgers and baseball and barbecue," Boris said in a purposefully exaggerated American drawl, making Yosof crack up laughing.

"We are going to be really bad at this," Yosof said, in an incredibly thick Indian accent that made Boris snort with repressed laughter. "Also, I love curry. I love me some goddamn curry."

"Perfect," Boris choked out, through bouts of laughter, and then they were both lost to hysterics. Kronsky looked on, shaking her head in mixed exasperation and amusement at the two giggly Assassins.

"You know, it's been forever since I heard you laugh," Yosof said, when they finally got themselves under control. "I forgot how much I missed it."

It _had_ been a while, Boris realized suddenly. Maybe even years. He wondered why he had never thought about that before. Was he really so depressed that he'd just stopped caring?

"Now, children," Kronsky said, with mock severity. "Let's focus on the mission. Do we have our new identities in order?"

"Yes, I think so." Boris folded up his papers and tucked them into his jacket. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning would be best. I'll have finished my own preparations by then." Kronsky left the room, her cane tap-tapping on the floorboards. "Have your things packed for your departure, dearies. Don't forget your dog!"

"We'd never forget Lady," Yosof said fondly, smiling at Boris. "Now would we?"

"Of course not." Now fully recovered from her injury, the dog was their faithful companion, running and jumping eagerly alongside Boris as he trained and sitting by Yosof at the dinner table to beg for scraps. "What are some things we could see in Chicago? I don't know America very well."

"Oh, we have to go to the Sears Tower first. Then Navy Pier, and the Art Institute, and the John Hancock…" Yosof rambled on happily as they headed back outside, and Boris listened with a smile on his face, enjoying himself for the first time in a long time.

He still had so many questions, though. Where had this new voice in his head come from, the one that said "bloke" and "bloody" and other tremendously British things, and how had it saved him? Who – or what – had been trying to control him? And why Chicago? It was a bewildering mess of information and secrets and cryptic clues, and he felt only slightly closer to solving all of the Brotherhood's mysteries than he had before.

"Hey," Yosof said, startling him out of his thoughts. "Boris."

"Yes?" Boris looked at him curiously as they neared the truck. "What is it?"

"Do you ever feel like we're in over our heads?"

"Of course I do. All the time." Boris slid into the driver's seat and took out his keys, not sure why he was suddenly being so straightforward about this. Maybe it was because he was tired of secrets. "I still don't really know what kind of power we're dealing with here, or who's trying to turn me against my own Order, or where the Templars are, or what they're doing. I don't know anything about what we're up against, Yosof, and you know what? It scares the living hell out of me."

"Me too." Yosof looked at him nervously, fiddling with a thread on his sleeve. "Boris?"

"Mm-hm?"

"If there's anyone I would go on a crazy suicide mission for, it's you."

Boris chuckled tiredly. "That's nice of you to say."

"And – and I really mean that. I'm here because you're the only person in the world I would run around the earth stabbing Templars for and go to different countries for and commit identity fraud for. You're the only guy in the universe that matters that much to me."

Boris smiled. "Well, we have done some pretty morally questionable things so far. I'm sure we'll get around to doing more."

"…Yeah, I guess so." Yosof looked at his shoes. "Anyway. We should go get gas."

"Right." But Boris lingered with the key hovering in the ignition, watching Yosof slump back into his seat and stare at his feet. It suddenly occurred to him that Yosof had just poured his heart out to Boris and confessed a lot of very important, deeply personal feelings and told him how he truly, honestly felt about their relationship, and he'd only responded with an offhand "oh, that's nice." _What an asshole I am,_ he thought, and threw the keys into the cupholder. "You know what, no. We're not dancing around this shit anymore."

"What?" Yosof looked at him uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"I love you, damnit. I love you more than I love whiskey. I love kissing you and dancing in the rain with you and getting off-my-ass drunk with you and watching the sunrise together. Do you love me, Yosof?"

"…Yes, Boris. Of course I do." Yosof managed a tentative smile. "I love you more than anything."

Boris looked at him, and thought he was the most beautiful man in the world, and finally let his walls drop. Because fuck it. He was in love, and no Templar was ever going to take that away from him. "You're the last one for me," he said. "I mean it. You're the last one ever. No one else is ever going to mean as much to me as you do, not if I live a hundred lifetimes."

Yosof's lip quivered. "Boris."

"Yosof Anand Kethrappali," he said, and took a velvet box out of his coat, opening it to reveal the golden ring inside. "Will you marry me?"

And in that moment all the world, and everything in it, stopped and held its breath.

"Oh my God," Yosof breathed, utterly dumbfounded; somehow it made the moment even better to realize that he'd completely blindsided him. "Oh my God, _yes!_ "

"Yes?" Boris confirmed. "Is that a yes? Did you say yes?"

"YES!" Yosof flung his arms around him, and Boris laughed for the second time in what felt like years, hugging him tightly. It didn't even matter that he had just popped the question in a broken-down red pickup truck on the side of an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere – all that mattered was that he'd said _yes,_ and Boris didn't give a damn about anything else.

"We're going to have our honeymoon in Chicago!" Yosof cried joyfully when they broke apart. "It's going to be amazing! We need to make plans!"

"Hold on, hold on." Boris took out his phone and tapped hastily. "We're only engaged right now. We have to find a church still."

" _Boris!"_ Yosof tried to grab the phone out of his hands, and he held it playfully away. "Boris, you just _proposed_ to me and you're already on your phone? Can't we savor the moment?"

"What? I'm finding a church! It's romantic!" Boris wrestled to keep his phone out of Yosof's reach, mock-whining. "I'm being _charming!"_

"Give me the phone, you stubborn Assassin bastard!"

"I'd die first!"

In the end, it took them an inordinate amount of time to leave the car, and they never really ended up going to the gas station. Instead they walked hand-in-hand back to the farm, distinctly disheveled and laughing merrily, drunk on each other. It was the first time in a long time that Boris felt truly happy, at peace with the world.

It wouldn't last long, he knew. Tomorrow they would be off to Chicago, heading to a new world with a new purpose. But at least they would have each other, and that was what really mattered.

 _And if any Templar lays a finger on him, I'll rip it off,_ he thought with an easy, satisfied smile. _And then I'll take the rest of them with it._


	6. Locks and Keys

"Is your brother all right?" Corvo asked, uncertainly.

Kayla looked up from her phone, frowning. "What do you mean? Ben's just fine." They were sitting at the table eating breakfast, oatmeal with cinnamon and butterscotch chips mixed in and glasses of orange juice. Corvo had been bewildered the entire time he watched her make it – first pouring the dry flakes out of a paper packet, then mixing in water and tossing it in a metal box, where it came out steaming hot. Then she opened another metal contraption and pulled out an ice-cold jug of orange juice. Why was one machine cold and another hot? All these modern machines were so strange and fascinating.

"Your brother doesn't speak, and he avoids me," Corvo said. "Is he shy?"

"Oh, don't worry. He's like that with everyone, even me." Kayla took a bite of her oatmeal. "They say it's autism. I don't know what it is, but he doesn't know how to take care of himself, so he lives with me and I take care of him. My father never asks about him. I think he likes to pretend he doesn't exist."

"Is he possessed of bad humors?"

"Wha – oh, I guess you'd call it that, in your time. We don't call it that anymore, for future reference – we say _mental disability_ now. But whatever it is, my father doesn't give two shits about him." She shrugged bitterly, taking a sip of orange juice. "He's the broken one. He couldn't be trained into a Templar, or even made to understand what a Templar was – so my father threw him out, like trash. Ben's useless to him."

Corvo looked over at Ben, tapping away quietly on his computer in the living room. "I had a cousin like him."

"Oh yeah?"

"She would tear her own fingernails off and smash her head against the wall until she concussed."

"…Jesus Christ."

"But when she was calm, she was the most beautiful, smart, precocious little girl. She could name every single bird that flew by – it was remarkable to sit with her and listen to her rattle them off, pointing them out with an eagle eye. She knew every marking and feather and color to distinguish them. I knew she was very smart, in that strange little shell of hers, and I cared for her greatly."

"That's really neat." Kayla took another bite of oatmeal, noticing that Corvo was still watching Ben. She suddenly realized that Ben must remind him of his cousin, and felt a twinge of affection. _He's not Nate,_ she reminded herself, but she couldn't help finding Corvo Bottitelli just as sweet. "Corvo, you can try talking to him, if you want. He likes listening to people. Just don't expect a terribly scintillating exchange in return."

Corvo stood up at once, cautiously moving over to the couch where Ben sat utterly absorbed in his computer. When he sat down beside him, Ben didn't react.

"Hello," Corvo ventured.

Ben did not move, but kept typing.

Corvo peered over his shoulder, transfixed by the glowing screen; yet another modern machine, this one showing what he vaguely recognized as a musical staff. "Ah, you must be a composer," he realized. "This is a complex melody." He squinted at it, trying to figure out how it went; clusters of interweaving notes went up and down, forming a lilting, strange harmony that he found odd and beautiful. He started whistling to it idly as Kayla wandered in, flopping down on the couch.

"So we need a plan," she said. "If we're going to help each other, you need to trust me. What can I do to convince you I'm not about to string you up and torture the Piece's location out of you?"

Corvo raised an eyebrow at her. "That's oddly specific."

"Well, it's what my father would have done to you if I hadn't gotten you out of there. You're lucky to be alive. We _both_ are." Kayla picked up the newspaper and flipped idly through it. "But really, Corvo, do you want to go find that Piece of Eden before my father does? Because if we're going to do that, then you have to trust me enough to tell me where it is. You can't get to it without me, not in this modern world where you don't know what anything is. You need my help to navigate the future, whether you like it or not."

Corvo watched her for a while. Then he said, "How did you first learn about the Assassins?"

"My father told me stories about them, when I was little. Preparing me to fight them someday." Kayla turned a page in the newspaper. "He told me how cruel and evil they were, and how they killed his mother – my grandmother. Of course, I didn't believe him then, and I'm still hesitant to believe him now. The story of how my grandmother died just seems too… clean. Convenient. Designed to make me hate the same people he did. And yet, if it's really true…"

"What about that device I was strapped into?" It suddenly occurred to Corvo that he had only gotten stuck in this body after waking up there, so it must have had something to do with his stranding. "You said it was called an Animus."

"Yes, it lets people relive the memories of their Assassin ancestors. That's how you got trapped in Nate's body."

"Have you ever been in one?"

Kayla hesitated, then relented. "Yes. I helped my father debug the code in some versions of the Animus, and in the process he gave me the key to get into the Animus lab. I couldn't resist sneaking in and doing a few sessions, just to see what it was like, and then…" She sighed. "I relived some memories I shouldn't have. I got out as fast as I could, but it left this… bleeding… in my mind. It left these voices in my head, and these powers… if I had let myself use it any longer, my ancestors would have taken me over, just like you've done."

"Who were these ancestors?"

"I'm descended from Ezio Auditore, your Mentor." She said it matter-of-factly. "And Evie Frye, one of the Master Assassins of London. Both of them were strong enough in my blood for me to relive their memories… and get their voices stuck in my head, forever. They won't leave me alone. Sometimes I get flashbacks in my sleep, like I'm still in the Animus, nightmares about Ezio's family being hanged before his eyes and dreams of running across rooftops with Jacob… the Bleeding Effect is what they call it. I can speak Italian, even though I never learned it. I can fight like a wildcat, even though I never trained. And… other things, too. Lots of things."

Corvo sat back slowly, marveling at the fact that a living, breathing Auditore was sitting before him. His Mentor's great-great-great-granddaughter, however many times removed. It was fascinating and beautiful all at once, and made him think amusedly of Ezio's amorous lifestyle – surely the man had done more for the Assassin bloodline in a few decades than all his own ancestors combined. He had a habit of being fast, casual and loose when it came to beautiful women, whereas Corvo had always taken a… slightly more conservative approach. It shouldn't have been too surprising, then, to learn that Ezio had far more modern-day descendants than he did.

 _But I do have one,_ he thought. This Nate whose body he was stuck in – he must have come from Corvo's own line, if he had enough DNA to relive his memories. It was a strangely meaningful, heartfelt thought to know that his love for his wife, Belle, had led to Assassin descendants of his own so far down the bloodline, even in the distant future.

And with that knowledge came his decision.

"I can trust you," he said.

Kayla blinked. "Really? You've decided now?"

"Yes," he said. "Because when I asked you all those questions, you told me nothing but the truth. I saw it in your eyes. And you are a child of Ezio Auditore, which means his loyalty and honor flows strong in your veins. I believe you, Kayla Giordano, however much I might scrutinize and question your reluctance to join the Assassins. And because of that, despite all my reservations, I trust you. You hardly allowed me any other choice."

"So… you'll let me help you? You'll tell me where the Piece of Eden is hidden?"

"Florence," Corvo said. "Beneath the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, beneath the tomb of a mighty Assassin who came before. Ezio thought it was a fitting place to hide the secret Piece of which no one knew, and which I swore a blood oath to never reveal until the Assassins needed it most."

Kayla stared at him, speechless. "What… what is it?"

"An entirely novel type of Piece," he said. "Not an Apple, or a Sword, or even a Staff or Shroud. They called it the Cloak of Eden."

"What does it do?"

Corvo hesitated. "…Many things. Great and terrible things. I will elaborate on them when you're ready."

"Oh, so you're treating me like a novice, then?"

"No," he said. "With all due respect, Kayla Giordano, you are not an Assassin. You are not of my Brotherhood and refuse to become so, despite this temporary alliance, and so I cannot call you any of its titles. You are an associate, nothing more."

She scowled for a moment, then relented. "I guess that's only fair. I haven't joined you, after all – I'm only helping you because I want to keep my father's grubby mitts off the Pieces of Eden. I don't care what you do with that Cloak, as long as it never gets in Templar hands."

"Let us hope it never does," Corvo agreed, then felt the need to add, "Or hasn't already."

"I wonder if my father let us escape to lead him to it," Kayla murmured, suddenly struck by this ominous thought. "You don't think…"

"It is best not to dwell on such things," Corvo said, dodging the question; in truth, he had been wondering the same thing, and feared what it might mean for their quest. But there were more important things to worry about now. "I have confided in you, and trusted you. Now you must uphold your end of the bargain. How will you get me to Florence?"

"We can't take a plane," Kayla said promptly. "That would be suicide – all the paperwork and documents, the TSA… it's a Templar's security paradise. We'd be caught the moment we walked in the door. How much do you want to bet our mugs are plastered all over Templar headquarters worldwide, with a reward underneath?"

 _I would bet quite a lot_ , Corvo thought grimly. "Then how do we travel under the radar?"

"Simple," Kayla said. "You see, now it's my turn to trust you, Corvo." She took out her cell phone. "I haven't mentioned it until now, because I wasn't sure if you were going to kill me in my sleep, but since you haven't, here's the deal. We have an Assassin on our side."

"Oh," Corvo said, startled. "Who?"

"He's the best damn hacker in the business, and he prefers to keep a low profile, but we've built up a little… how do you say… working relationship. He'll help us get to Florence the way the Templars would never expect."

"And what way is that?" Corvo asked cautiously.

Kayla smiled wryly. "How do you feel about boats, trains and antique flying machines?"

Corvo was just about to reply when they both heard a small noise – a clatter on the roof. Both of them stiffened at once, looking around wildly. "Oh, shit," Kayla said. "I thought my father didn't know I lived here. I blocked all the tracking on my phone –"

"Shh." Corvo made to unsheathe his Hidden Blade, then remembered he didn't have one and scowled angrily. He really needed to find some weapons. He tiptoed into the kitchen and pulled a steak knife out of Kayla's knife block as a substitute, clutching it tightly as he peered out the windows, checking for ropes or ladders. "If they're on the roof, they'll come in through the windows," he whispered, hearing Kayla's steps behind him. "Or they'll try to vault onto your balcony."

"I'll watch the balcony, then." Kayla opened the hall closet, rummaged around, and emerged with a shotgun, cocking it confidently. "Take a look at this, Corvo. Modern weaponry at its finest."

"Is that a gun?" He vaguely remembered Ezio using a firearm once, some kind of small, wrist-mounted hidden gun of Leonardo da Vinci's own design. But this weapon was much larger, streamlined, and clearly more advanced. Yet again he had to marvel at the wonders of this futuristic technology.

"Not just _a_ gun." Kayla popped open the clip to show him the massive shell inside. " _The_ gun."

"Oh," he said, uncertainly. He usually preferred stealthy, silent weapons, but if she could aim the thing and pull the trigger, who was he to judge her methods? "Carry on, then."

"Gladly." Kayla tiptoed into the bedroom to watch the balcony. Corvo waited in the kitchen, listening for more sounds; he didn't hear anything, but his Eagle Vision was starting to tug at him.

He closed his eyes, and opened his mind. Glowing shapes appeared around him – initially only the green blobs that were Kayla and Ben, and a few yellow blobs that were potential weapons and hiding places. _Only my allies show as green,_ he thought, with a mixed sense of uncertainty and relief; at least he had judged the Giordano siblings correctly, although he still didn't know just how reliable they would prove to be.

And then he made out two bright green shapes on the roof of the apartment complex – climbing down the brick wall with the catlike grace of Assassins, silently heading towards the living room window. Corvo immediately darted back into the living room and pressed himself against the wall beside the window, waiting to stab whoever opened it. But then he hesitated, realizing something – the intruders had showed as green. _Green._

There was only one conclusion, and it raised so many more questions. _Assassins_ , he thought, awed and bewildered. More of them. But it couldn't be…

Then he remembered that for all they knew, this was the home of Stefan Giordano's daughter, a fellow Templar. Whatever her reasons were, she had agreed to help Corvo find the Piece of Eden and kill her father, and that meant she was an ally of the Assassins, even if she was obviously a bit conflicted about who to join in this great war of theirs. He had to protect her.

Corvo did the only thing he could do. He threw open the window, and was about to call out something along the lines of, "we are Assassins," or "get the hell out of here," but Kayla beat him to it.

"What's the password?" she bellowed from the bedroom.

There was dead silence.

Corvo peered up at the invaders, curiosity triumphing over self-preservation. One of them was holding to the bricks on the side of the apartment and evidently had been seconds away from kicking in the window; the fact that he was able to use such tiny fingerholds was an impressive show of parkour, Corvo noted. The other was perched delicately on the windowsill above Kayla's, looking nervously down and obviously less convinced of his climbing abilities. "What did she say?" he yelled.

The one by the window yelled back, "She asked the password. Did Kronsky say anything about a password?" Then, to Corvo, "Sorry, were we supposed to get a code word? Hel Kronsky sent us here. You're the Assassin we're supposed to be meeting, right?"

"Er," Corvo said. "I think you have the wrong house."

The Assassin cursed loudly. "Yosof, you piece of shit, you led us to some poor stranger's house!" he bellowed up at his comrade. "Now they're going to call the police on us!"

"If I led you to the wrong house, it's because my phone is from the Stone Age and you've never bought me a new one, _and_ you have the sense of direction of a concussed antelope!" Yosof shouted back. " _Apprentice!"_

"Oh, don't you turn this on me! This is _your_ fault for not learning a little parkour before we came here, _novice_!"

"I'm sorry if I was more concerned with getting us here in one piece than learning some fancy climbing moves!"

"Goddamnit, Yosof, you are just _full of it today!_ There's a goddamn civilian down there who knows Assassins exist now and you're more concerned with tossing the buck around!"

Corvo listened, amazed, as the two Assassins bickered on and called each other names, evidently oblivious to the Master Assassin waiting in the window below them and the dangerous daughter of a Templar somewhere inside. "Excuse me," he said at last, when the man by the window hurled a brick at the one above and got a string of Hindu curses in return. "Can I ask the name of the Assassin you're looking for?"

"Yeah, you incompetent Templar dipshits had better tell us," Kayla said, arriving beside Corvo and aiming her shotgun up at the invaders. "Before I blow your heads off."

"Whoa, hang on, easy. We don't want any trouble," the man said hastily, raising one hand in surrender while clinging to the wall with the other. "My name is Boris, and this is Yosof. We're Assassins."

"Not terribly good ones," Corvo muttered, but Kayla seemed more amused than threatened.

"I see." She lowered the gun. "Well, I'm Kayla, and this is Corvo Bottitelli. He's an Assassin, too. Who are you looking for? And who's Hel Kronsky?"

"We were sent to meet someone called the Eagle." Boris vaulted smoothly into the apartment without asking, dusting himself off; Yosof scrambled down to follow him, mumbling curses as he skinned his knees and palms on the bricks. "I'm assuming that's not either of you?"

"No," Corvo said. "They call me the Crow, sometimes, but it doesn't sound like I'm your man. Were you sent to this house, specifically?"

"Yes, I think this is the right address." Boris turned to help Yosof through the window. "Easy there, big shot. You're lucky we stumbled across some Assassins, or we could have been in a _lot_ of trouble."

"I told you this was the house," Yosof said, brushing dust off his clothes. "Are you sure no one called the Eagle lives here? A Master Assassin named Hel Kronsky didn't contact any of you?"

"Doesn't ring a bell," Kayla said. "But since you're here, and you're Assassins…" She raised an eyebrow at Corvo. "Should we tell them where we're going?"

"Are we sure they can be trusted?" Corvo hedged.

"Sure, they seem harmless enough." Kayla shouldered her shotgun. "How much do you fellows know about the Pieces of Eden?"

Yosof looked bewildered, but Boris raised an eyebrow. "So you _are_ the Assassins we're looking for," he said. "Kronsky sent us to help you defend an artifact from the Templars."

"Uh – yeah. That's definitely us." Kayla grinned, ignoring Corvo's incredulous look in her direction; he seemed to be saying, _What are you doing?_ "Want to help us out, then?"

"Seeing as that's what we're doing here, I suppose the answer is yes." Boris stuck out a hand. "Boris Torvald, at your service."

Kayla, who had been reaching to shake his hand, jerked back as though stung. "Holy shit," she breathed. "You're the son of Victor and Amelia."

"…Yes?" He frowned. "Did you know them?"

"Oh, shit. Um… never mind." Kayla cleared her throat. "I'm Kayla Whitegate. This is the Master Assassin Corvo Bottitelli – it's a long story about him, though. Don't ask."

Corvo was about to ask her why she changed her last name when Boris nodded grimly. "Where are we going?"

"Florence, Italy," Kayla said. "Are you up for that?"

Yosof smiled. "Now _that_ sounds like a honeymoon."

"We're in," Boris said, patting his Hidden Blade; Corvo looked at it enviously, admiring the craftsmanship and sleek, stolid design. He sorely missed the comforting weight of his own, and the power it represented. "Just tell us what to do, and we'll do it. Assassins always stick together."

"Great," Kayla said. "You can start by helping me load some stuff into the car – I've got some boxes in the kitchen. We're going on a very long trip."

Boris nodded to Yosof, who trotted off into the kitchen. Then his gaze traveled to Ben, still sitting silently on the couch and tapping away on his computer. "I almost didn't notice him sitting there. Is he a friend?"

"Yes, he's fine. He's just my brother." Kayla patted Ben's shoulder as she followed Yosof. "Don't worry, he's not listening to anything we're saying. He never does."

"I see." Boris eyed Ben uncertainly, then looked at Corvo, who was torn between blurting out the truth – that they were most definitely _not_ the Assassins these two had been sent to help – and wondering who in the world Hel Kronsky was. "So you're really Corvo Bottitelli?"

"Yes," Corvo said. "It's, er, a bit of a long story. I'm not from this world. I'm trapped here by…"

"The Animus?" Boris guessed.

Corvo nodded wearily. "The Animus."

"Well, either way, it's an honor to meet you, even if you're not in your proper body." Boris offered his gauntleted hand, and Corvo shook it. "You were personally mentored by Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and that is no small thing. What was he like?"

"He was Ezio," Corvo decided. "Nothing more, nothing less." There was no other way to describe the personality of the most enigmatic, peculiar Assassin there ever was – and his closest, dearest friend.

Boris smiled, perhaps understanding. "It must have been a joy to know him."

"Yes, it was." That was a vast understatement; meeting him, and being trained by him, had changed Corvo's life forever.

"Who's Kayla, then?" Boris asked. "Is she a Master Assassin as well?"

"No, she's…" Corvo hesitated, unsure what to say. "An ally," he decided. "For now."

"She certainly knows her way around a shotgun." Boris chuckled nervously. "I'll watch my back around her."

"You should," Corvo said. _In more ways than one._ Perhaps her mysterious Assassin ally and the Assassin Boris had been sent to find were one and the same, but that didn't leave him any closer to knowing who that shadowy figure was, or what their goals were in all of this. He felt like he was starting to lose control of this situation, forced to trust these strange people with their unknown motivations in a venture that could change the course of history. He wanted to find that Piece to keep it out of Templar hands, but how could he do that if he wasn't even sure whose hands those were?

 _I'm losing my edge,_ he thought, watching as Boris headed into the kitchen to help pack the car. _I need to keep a closer eye on these people, all of them. Not just Kayla._ His gaze traveled back to Ben, tap-tapping quietly away on his laptop, and he thought again of his cousin, so brilliant but trapped in a strange, closed-off shell. Perhaps Ben was the same, and the only reason Kayla was so comfortable openly discussing Assassin business in front of him was because Benjamin Giordano was much smarter than he let on.

Or maybe he was just so quiet that everyone had a habit of forgetting he was in the room. It could also be that.

Corvo sat down beside him again, watching him carefully place notes on the musical staff. "You know, Ben," he said, "I'm beginning to think there's more than just music going on in your head."

Ben said nothing. Sighing, Corvo rose to go help with preparations.


	7. Fire and Water

_A/N: If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading! Every fav, follow and review gives me the energy to keep on writing. You guys are awesome! I haven't had a lot of time to write lately, so here is a kind of transition/character development chapter while I focus on getting my life back together. Hopefully I'll be able to give you guys a semi-regular update schedule soon!_

"The Cloak of Eden," Boris mused. "My uncle never mentioned such a thing. Are you sure it exists?"

"I held it in my hands," Corvo said, amused. "I laid it in its resting place myself. Of course it exists."

"Well, if it exists, then why can't you tell us what it does?" Yosof raised an eyebrow. "That seems like important information."

"I told you, you aren't prepared to know." Corvo closed his eyes, leaning back against his chair. "Now please be quiet."

"Why? We're on a boat, not in the library." Yosof gestured to the empty chairs around them. "No one else is on board, anyway." Through some mysterious means that had not been adequately explained to anybody, Kayla's secret Assassin had secured them a private boat, the only directive being that no one could ask any questions about it. It wasn't a yacht; more like a small, heavily battered ferry, complete with an unsettling lean to starboard and little sickening jolts of motion each time the prow hit the ocean waves. None of them had managed to discern if the captain knew about the Assassins, or had even gotten a chance to talk to her at all, as she would angrily gesture at the waves and swear herself blue every few minutes and seemed not even to notice they were on board. But it was a boat, it didn't seem in immediate danger of sinking, and it wasn't crawling with hidden cameras or Templar spies, so no one was complaining.

But Corvo Bottitelli di San Giorgino was obviously uncomfortable. And looking at him, Boris noticed that he had his eyes tightly shut as the boat drifted up and down on the waves, and suddenly realized why the hardened Assassin was so twitchy and desperate for quiet. "You're seasick, aren't you?"

"No," Corvo said flatly, but he grimaced as they struck a larger wave and the boat rocked ominously. " _Merda –_ no, of course not. Assassins don't get seasick."

"Uh-huh," Yosof said, glancing up briefly. "Sure." He was studying the blank journal that Boris's parents had left for him, examining each page with hawklike focus in search of clues; he'd been trying to decipher it for days now, and kept coming up empty. Boris was also lost as to what it meant. Perhaps his parents had wanted him to keep a diary? But then why include it in a chest with a Hidden Blade and Assassin robes? It seemed… counterintuitive.

Boris looked back at Ben, who was sitting silently in the back of the cabin typing on his ever-present laptop. "Why did he come with us again?"

"Well, I couldn't just leave him," Kayla said, twisting in the front seat to look back at Boris. "Who's going to take care of him if I'm gone?"

"You realize we're probably going to be fighting Templars, right? He might be in danger. They might use him as a bargaining chip."

"Nah." Kayla turned back around and resumed playing Infinity Blade on her phone. "He'll be fine."

Boris sighed. "I don't understand anything that's going on right now."

"Welcome to being an Assassin," Corvo said dryly.

Just then the captain set up another bout of loud swearing, and they all looked at her as she stormed down the stairs into the cabin. She stared around at them for a moment, then nodded and put her hands on her hips. "So," she said, in heavily accented English – _Scottish,_ Boris thought, but he wasn't sure. "Ye grimy little bawbags want to tell me what you lot are doin' aboard me ship, and why I had to sneak yer crazy medieval weapons through the customs folks without burstin' me whole smugglin' career at the seams?"

"Er," Yosof contributed. "We, er, we're not criminals."

"Aren't ye now? I think you are. After all, I don't normally get requests for top secret transport for _innocent_ lads, now do I?" She surveyed them as though they were all grimy stowaways, and they stared back at her blankly, utterly unsure what to make of her. "But yer boss is payin' me good, and I haven't had a proper contract in a while, so I'll keep ye rats aboard me ship until we hit Port Gardenia, I can promise ye that much. But don't you cause _any_ trouble, because once we make landfall I want you lot off my boat faster than a wound-up hog, ye hear me? Otherwise I'll take me broom to your asses."

"Understood," Yosof said, uncertainly.

"Delightful. So now we might as well get to know each other, eh?" She stuck out a hand to Kayla first, and she shook it. "I would say you look like a decent lady, if it wasn't for your name bein' scribbled on every third weapon in the hold. But that's no business of mine, eh? Cap'n Delilah Rogers, at your service."

"Captain Rogers?" she echoed, with a laugh in her voice. "You mean like the Avenger?"

"The who now?" Delilah moved down the aisle to grasp Corvo's hand. "A pleasure, ye big brute. Italian, are ye?"

"Yes, _signora._ "

"Me mum's mum was an Italian, she was." Delilah shook Yosof's next. "And you've got a pretty face there, don't ye? Mind if I invite you to my cabin for drinks later?"

"Why thank you," Yosof said, obviously flattered. He fluttered his eyelashes at Boris, who mock-glared back at him. "But I'm taken."

"Got a girlfriend, then, have ye?"

"Not quite." He flashed the ring on his finger with a beaming smile. "I'm engaged."

"That's a shame, it is. But I'm happy for ye girl, whoever she is." Delilah offered her meaty palm to Boris, who clasped it firmly. "And ye sound like a Russian, do ye not?"

"Yes, I'm from Russia."

"Fancy that." Finally, she offered her hand to Ben, who didn't budge. "Ye want to shake there, laddie?"

"Er, he doesn't really –" Corvo started, but Delilah cut him off.

"Ah, well. Shaking's overrated anyhow, ain't it?" She dropped her hand and headed back up the stairs, calling behind her, "Let me know if you laddies need anything else. The head's the back door on the left, in case ye were wondering. Just don't clog it, ye hear? I've had enough bills this month already."

"The what?" Boris wondered aloud.

"Toilet," Yosof murmured back.

" _Oh."_

"Well, our resident smuggler seems nice," Kayla said, torn between amusement and disbelief that this was the person her Assassin had chosen to hire. "Let's hope she can get us into Port Gardenia without too much fuss. After that it should only be a few hours to Florence, and from there it's a nice easy walk down to the church and the Piece of Eden beneath. My friend has a contact there who can get us into the basilica after dark."

"Is this ocean voyage really going to take _two weeks?"_ Yosof sighed. "I'm nervous enough right now, and it's only been a couple of hours."

"It's a full-on Atlantic crossing, and this isn't exactly a speedboat. What did you expect?" Kayla chuckled. "Be thankful for the wonders of modern technology, or it could have been much longer."

"Ah, _si,"_ Corvo said fondly. "I remember when Cristoforo Corombo first crossed the ocean and returned with his wondrous tales of a new land. It was truly marvelous. I suppose you would know him now as Christopher Columbus?"

"Holy shit," Yosof breathed, apparently just remembering that Corvo had been displaced from Renaissance Italy in a time when the map wasn't even finished yet. "Sometimes I forget you actually lived in that century. What was that like? Did you get to see his ships come in?"

"And keep in mind that he was a terrible person who slaughtered innocent Native Americans and pillaged everything he touched," Boris tacked on dryly. "Just saying."

" _Si, si,_ of course. We did not know this at the time, but modern history books have made his atrocities quite clear." Corvo closed his eyes, lost in memories. "But back then, he was a great hero. Ezio saved his life from the Templars once, and when the poor man lost his nerve, my Mentor told him he was 'no simple adventurer.' That gave him the strength to continue helping the Assassins until his death. He was even entrusted with an Apple, I'm told, and kept it safe with him to the grave."

"Wow." Yosof seemed fascinated. "That's incredible."

"Terrible person," Boris contributed helpfully.

"Right, but still. It's really fascinating. I love all of this Assassin history."

"I am glad," Corvo said, regarding Yosof with clear approval. "Perhaps you should be an Assassin historian. If the Order is truly in the state that Kayla describes, we will greatly need you in the battles to come."

Yosof looked tempted for a moment, but then sighed. "I could never abandon my hu –"

"Friend," Boris said loudly. "Best friend."

"…Right." Yosof looked sheepishly at his husband. "We could never abandon each other. We fight together or not at all."

"You must be good friends," Kayla said. But Corvo squinted at them suspiciously. He looked at the ring on Yosof's finger, then at the matching one on Boris's; seeing the direction of his gaze, Boris hastily covered it with his hand, but the damage was done. Corvo nodded slowly, then turned away, apparently processing this new information.

 _I wonder how his time would have viewed same-sex relationships,_ Boris thought worriedly, and then remembered that their treatment of homosexuality involved copious amounts of rope and fire. _Oh. Yes. Sometimes I forget._ He looked over at Yosof, who was smiling obliviously, and felt a self-crushing love for him. _I'll never take you for granted again._

It was a sentiment he pondered again later that night, when he flopped down on the bed in his generously named "quarters." Which was, in all honesty, more of a medium-sized broom closet that happened to contain furniture. "I think Corvo knows about us, Yosof."

"Is that a big deal?" Yosof shrugged. "I mean, it _is_ the twenty-first century."

"Not for him," Boris said. "You have to remember, he grew up in a time where they literally burned people like us at the stake."

He expected Yosof to make some dry quip about this, but Yosof only quietly lay down beside him and nestled into his chest, apparently silently thinking the same thing Boris had earlier – how easy it was to forget that for all those untold centuries before their own, they would have been killed for loving each other. Too overcome to speak, Boris simply kissed his forehead and closed his eyes, drifting off to the warmth of Yosof's breath on his ear and the soft murmur of his heartbeat against his.

He couldn't remember exactly what led him to awaken, but he opened his eyes groggily sometime later. Yosof was still snoring against him, solidly in dreamland; Boris gently disentangled himself, trying not to wake him, and tiptoed out of the room to get some fresh air.

He found Corvo waiting on the deck, resting his arms on the railing and looking out at the dark, thrashing ocean. It was painted silver and white in the moonlight, shining in a way that made Boris truly appreciate the sea breeze in his hair and the faint tinge of salt in the air. He had never been to the ocean before; his uncle had barely taken him outside the farm, let alone drive him out to a beach. _It's beautiful,_ he thought, a bit humbled by its vastness – he had never really realized how _big_ it was until it surrounded him on all sides, with no land in sight in any direction.

"You and Yosof," Corvo said. It was not a question.

Boris nodded.

Corvo looked out at the ocean, watching the waves brush against the sides of the boat and shimmer in the darkness. "I remember my first meeting with Leonardo."

"Who?"

"Leonardo da Vinci," Corvo said, looking at him as though genuinely questioning his intelligence. "I presume he is as famous in this century as he was in mine."

"Yes," Boris said, chuckling. "He is. Did you know then that he would be the big deal he is today?"

"I knew his work would last a very long time, and inspire many people. It pleases me to know that people still appreciate his genius in your time." Corvo studied him. "When I met the great da Vinci for the first time – Ezio was the one who introduced me – it struck me how very different he was, in so many ways. I had a strange feeling about him that I was not sure how to put into words."

Boris stared at him, wondering where this was going. What was Corvo trying to tell him?

"I eventually realized why I had this feeling about Leonardo," Corvo went on. "I realized it when I met his assistant, Salai. They were so clearly more than just man and apprentice, and when I expressed my questions to Ezio, he laughed it off and told me that Leonardo 'wasn't much distracted by women.' And then, when I continued to linger on the issue, he grew very serious and told me that the Assassins are built on freedom, love and acceptance of all people, whatever their kind, whatever their choices. And I must respect the freedom of others, even if I do not understand it."

 _So Ezio knew that Leonardo was gay,_ Boris thought fondly, finally realizing what Corvo was getting at. _And he loved him just the way he was._ It made him look up to the Master Assassin even more than he did already. The man truly embodied so much of what made the Assassin Order beautiful.

"When my Mentor told me this," Corvo said, "I realized that even if I did not understand the lifestyle of men and women like Leonardo da Vinci, I had no right to stand in the way of it. It was simply not the Assassin way to impede a freedom that does not hurt others – and, truly, has very little effect on others whatsoever." He looked at Boris, suddenly curious. "Is it different now, in your time? Do you have this freedom that men in my era lacked?"

Boris wavered for a moment. "Almost," he decided. "We're almost there, as a society. We're getting closer every day."

"Good." Corvo smiled faintly. "You and Yosof are a good couple."

"Thank you." Boris chuckled. "We're hoping to get married once we reach Italy. We didn't have time to do it in Chicago, and Russia doesn't allow gay marriage yet."

"I wish you both luck." Corvo looked back at the waves. "Boris, I think you already know this, but Kayla and I are not the people you were sent to find."

Boris nodded. "I know. But I'm helping you anyway."

"Why?" Corvo was genuinely curious. "What do you get out of all this? Why do you trust us so much?"

"Well, I know you're really Corvo Bottitelli, for one thing. And that means I can trust you, even if I can't trust anyone else around here. So that inclines me to come with you." Boris rested his arms on the railing. "But I'm also coming because if there really is a Piece of Eden in Florence, and we can use it to get a foothold over the Templars, then I can finally get back at them for killing my parents and my uncle, and almost tearing Yosof and I apart."

"Revenge, then," Corvo summarized. "And curiosity, and love for your partner."

"And a great respect for you. All of those things, I think." Boris chuckled. "Corvo Bottitelli di San Giorgino, running around with a bunch of novices and apprentices on a ferry in the middle of the ocean. Who would have thought?"

"It is rather strange." Corvo closed his eyes, debating. "Boris, do you know who killed your parents?"

"Yes, there were five conspirators. My uncle told me everything he knew about them, to motivate my training." He shrugged. "My parents were Master Assassins – tough, hard to take down. They had to use numbers."

"What were their names?"

"Rowan Chillford." He listed them off on his fingers. "Dead, according to my uncle. Liza Caldwell, also dead. Jules Stoneford, alive. Hugo Killian, alive last time I checked. And all of them were given the order by a powerful Templar they call the Red Crow – Stefan Giordano."

 _Oh._ Corvo felt a chill. Now he understood Kayla's reluctance to tell Boris her last name. "Stefan Giordano is… a dangerous opponent."

"Yes." Boris nodded grimly. "He'll die last, and slowest. Do you know him?"

"He's the one who trapped me in this body with the Animus." _And so much more than that, it seems._

"You don't say." Boris smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I can't tell you how long I've been waiting to stab him in the throat. He'll eat cold steel for tearing out my parents' guts like confetti – I swear by all the Creeds there are, I will avenge them, even if it means ripping out every feather in that miserable man's oh-so-lovely Assassin-killing armor." He sighed and slumped against the railing, suddenly back to his usual, emotionally controlled self after those few moments of passionate ranting. "If I can muster the strength, that is. I'm still not fully convinced I have it in me to kill people, no matter how much I tell myself it won't be so hard."

"Well, you wear that Hidden Blade well," Corvo said. "And you have the training for it. But I can understand your hesitation."

"Do you remember your first kill?" Boris ventured. "What you felt when you did it?"

"Yes." Corvo closed his eyes, recalling his most deeply buried memories. "It was a silk merchant who was running a trafficking ring out of the back room. I remember feeling so disgusted, so _appalled,_ when I discovered his dirty little secret, and so I did not feel one splinter of remorse when I buried my sword in his abdomen. It was only when I held him while he died that I first began to realize that I had just ended a human life, and then… well, then the nightmares started."

"Do they ever stop?" Boris asked. "The nightmares?"

"No." Corvo said it simply. "You learn to live with them."

And then they were both quiet for a very long time.

Finally Boris ventured, "I should probably get back to bed."

But Corvo didn't reply; his gaze was fixed on the waves, a tiny frown growing on his face. It was as though he was mildly perplexed by something.

"Aren't you going to sleep, too?" Boris asked, trying to get a response; he was unnerved by Corvo's abruptly blank expression. "It's getting late."

There was another long, uncomfortable silence, in which Corvo stared out at the ocean, as though caught in a trance. The boat rocked gently underneath them.

"You, uh, you should probably sleep," Boris said, half-wondering if the time-transplanted Master Assassin was having a seizure. "That's something humans need to do." He edged forward, reaching to touch his shoulder. "Corvo, are you –"

The Master Assassin's hand snapped up like a cobra, grabbing his wrist and yanking. Boris had one brief, dizzying sensation of being airborne before he was sailing over the deck railing towards the black waves below, his stomach ripping itself out of his chest in the utter terror of freefall – he braced himself for impact as the wind tore his breath from his lungs, the waves getting closer, closer – and then a hand seized his wrist with iron fingers, jerking him sharply out of his fall like a parachute snapping open. He dangled there for a long moment, gasping and breathless with shock, and then found the state of mind to look up at his savior. Except it was Corvo who had grabbed him, and was now staring down at him with fire in his eyes and a fierce grin on his face.

"What the hell was that for?!" Boris spluttered, kicking desperately to try and get a purchase on the boot's slippery sides – but he couldn't find a foothold. "You nearly threw me overboard!"

"Defend yourself, then!" The Master Assassin pulled him back onto the deck, and Boris stumbled, still half in shock – only for Corvo to seize his wrists and hurl him across the deck like a rag doll. His back slammed hard against the floorboards, and he gasped up at the stars for a few seconds to catch his breath, heart slamming against his ribcage. What the hell was Corvo doing?

"Why are you trying to kill me?" he managed, as Corvo peered down at him with obvious amusement on his face. "You could have snapped my spine, you pompous –"

"Finished yet?" Corvo planted one boot on his chest, keeping him down. "What would you do if a Templar had you down like this, apprentice? How would you get back the upper hand? And just so you know, for all the time you've been flopping around like a dying fish, I could have killed you twelve times over."

"Are you… _training_ me?" Boris tried to laugh, but only wheezed weakly. "I've been trained by Victor Torvald, Mir Torvald and Hel Kronsky. I've learned from the best."

"Well, you haven't really shown it yet, have you?" Corvo grinned as Boris glowered back at him. "What, are you mad at me for saying that? Tone down your bravado, apprentice. You're strong, but you're hardly prepared for a real fight."

"To be fair, I haven't been in _actual_ combat much," Boris allowed, gasping as Corvo crushed his windpipe with the toe of his boot. "Mostly I've just been hit with sticks and emotionally abused by my uncle. Can you please let me up now? This really hurts."

"You'll have to let yourself up, I'm afraid," Corvo said, matter-of-factly. "Get up."

Boris glared up at him, and Corvo only smiled calmly back. Then he struggled madly, trying to worm his way out from under Corvo's boot, only to wheeze helplessly as the Assassin pressed harder on his ribcage. "This isn't helping my self-esteem, you know," he gasped out.

"Oh, come on. A Torvald lying on the floor like a deadbeat, letting himself die? Stop blabbering on and fight me already." Corvo tilted his head, studying him wryly. "I'm a Templar, and I've got you pinned to the floor. In a second I'll stab you in the neck unless you figure out some clever way to throw me off guard. Now, what are you going to do?"

Boris took a break from mad struggling and thought for a moment. There was no way he was getting out of this with brute force, not when Corvo Bottitelli was strong enough to strangle a horse – even in a weaker, unfamiliar body, he had all the strength of his famous Mentor and the motormouth to match. His eyes traveled around the deck, searching desperately for something that could help him, and alighted on one of the loose ropes scattered about the deck, one of them just within reach. _Ah-ha._

In one quick motion, he seized the end of a rope and lashed it up at Corvo like a whip, striking him in the face. The Master Assassin released him to clutch his face with a grunt of pain, and Boris grabbed his ankle to throw him down to the deck like a wrestler, seizing his wrists and pinning him there. Now it was Boris grinning proudly as Corvo looked wearily up at him.

"Well done," he said. "Have you gotten your revenge?"

"Not yet." Boris punched him in the stomach, and Corvo wheezed with pain. " _That_ was for throwing me overboard. Now we're even."

Corvo grinned up at him, and Boris smiled back; in that moment he suddenly wondered if this meant Corvo had taken him on as his apprentice. It would be an immense honor to be mentored by Corvo Bottitelli himself, he thought with mixed delight and awe. Surely the man could teach him so much –

In a flash, Corvo had thrown him off and jumped to his feet, raising his fists. "All right," he said. "I've taught you how to escape a pin. Now let's see how well you can tangle."

"Gladly." Boris lifted his own, adrenaline singing through his veins. In the moment he hardly cared if it was one in the morning; he was so eager for the training that everything else was secondary, including sleeping. It was the first time that Corvo Bottitelli had shown anything more than casual, faintly amused indifference towards him, and he would take any chance he could get to keep talking to this mighty Master Assassin from a time long past. "I should warn you, I have a mean right hook."

"Let's see about that." And Corvo darted forward, striking him in the right ear. Boris let himself take the hit with a flash of pain, then, ignoring the ringing in his head, struck back, grabbing Corvo's wrist and twisting hard.

To his shock, instead of playfully taking the hit, Corvo roared with pain and yanked it back as though stung, clutching the limb in obvious agony. "Oh, Jesus," Boris stuttered, suddenly realizing he had genuinely hurt the man. "Oh, shit, I didn't mean to do it so hard. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Corvo managed, gripping his wrist tightly; if not for the moonlight, Boris could have sworn there were tears shining in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I should have mentioned. Stefan Giordano broke my wrist when I escaped Abstergo, and it hasn't healed yet." He cursed under his breath, clutching his hand as though furious at it for failing him. "Damn everything, I feel like my arm is full of splinters."

"So you wanted to fistfight me with a broken wrist?" Boris wasn't sure whether to be impressed or horrified at his apparent utter lack of self-preservation instincts. "We, uh, we should probably wait on the training for a while before you break anything else."

"I'm _fine,_ damnit!" Corvo swore violently, rubbing his wrist. " _Merda, merda, MERDA!_ Damn this weak body to _hell!_ I wish I was back home where I belong!" He slammed his broken wrist on the deck railing, hissing with what must have been the resulting anguish. "I miss _home!"_

Boris stared at him, startled to see such an emotional outburst from the usually stoic Assassin. "I… I can imagine you do. I'm really sorry you had to be put through all this. I know you didn't want to be here."

"… _Merda,"_ Corvo muttered, relenting back to his usual quiet stoicism. "I apologize. You shouldn't have to watch your master break down like this. I'm supposed to be the strong one."

Boris's heart warmed. _Your master._ So he really was treating Boris like one of his apprentices. "It's okay, Master," he said, deciding he might as well start using the honorific if this was going to be their relationship now. "Everyone gets frustrated sometimes. You're human, just like the rest of us."

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't." Corvo gave him a sheepish look. "I don't like feeling mortal, and breakable, especially not in this cursed body that can't run five paces without dropping like a sack of tomatoes."

"Potatoes," Boris corrected, unsure if it was all right to chuckle at his Master's attempted and failed use of modern English slang. "But I understand what you mean. We're all weaker now, all the Assassins. We're not the all-powerful gods we used to be, the ones that can take fifty arrows and still walk away bloodless – it's been too long, too much diluting of the bloodline. We all have to get used to being wounded and weak."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Corvo heaved a quiet sigh. "You should go to bed, Boris. It's late."

"Only if you sleep, too."

"…Very well." Corvo moved away from the railing down the stairs, and Boris trailed after him. "I will see you tomorrow for more training, apprentice."

"Talking," Boris said firmly. "Not training. You need more time to heal before I go beating you up again."

"Because you were definitely the one doing the beating." But there was a faint smile on Corvo's face as he entered his quarters. "Good night, Boris."

"Good night, Master." Boris watched him close the door, then headed back to his own quarters, processing everything he had learned.

When he entered, Yosof was still fast asleep, adorably splayed out and snoring into the pillows. Boris carefully slipped back under the covers, trying not to wake him; feeling the bed move, Yosof stirred and sleepily lifted an arm, and Boris slid his own underneath it to hold him close, resting his head in Yosof's dark, faintly fragrant hair. "I love you, darling," he murmured. "You know that, don't you?"

Yosof yawned. "I know," he mumbled, groggily. "Where did you go?"

"I went on deck to talk to Corvo."

"Oh yeah?" Yosof chuckled wearily. "Did he spout some metaphysical stuff about the ideological differences between Assassins and Templars? Because Kayla rambled on about all that stuff over dinner."

"Not exactly." Boris closed his eyes. "I told him about us, and he told me about Leonardo da Vinci."

"Right, he was super gay," Yosof murmured, making Boris laugh at how matter-of-factly he said it. "I forgot he probably would have met him."

"Yes, well, it turns out Ezio Auditore was a huge ally." Boris chuckled, kissing Yosof's hair. "So he probably would have approved of us."

"That's cool." Yosof yawned again. "I need to breathe, baby. You're holding me too tightly."

"Sorry." But Boris didn't loosen his grip, instead listening to Yosof's breathing gradually slow and lull back into soft snores; he needed to hear it somehow, after all the thoughts he'd been haunted with about bonfires and witch hunts. Only then did he close his eyes and let himself drift off, still thinking about Corvo Bottitelli di San Giorgino, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and the faraway Cloak of Eden they had sworn to conceal forever in an age long past – buried deep within a cathedral laden with Assassin history, hidden away for untold centuries, waiting silently, patiently, for them to arrive.


	8. Cloak and Dagger

_A/N: DOUBLE UPDATE TODAY! If you missed the last chapter, be sure to go back and get caught up. Also, be prepared - things get a little real in this chapter. Just a quick warning that there will be more blood and gore than usual._

"We're here, laddies!" Delilah called over her shoulder, guiding the boat into Port Gardenia. "You better make yourselves scarce when I land, ye hear? I've had quite enough of your brawlin' and bein' mysterious on my boat, thank ye kindly."

"Don't worry, we're not planning on staying." Kayla grinned at her, resting her arms on the railing to watch the port approach. Gardenia was a lovely, crescent-shaped village that hugged the water like a jealous midwife, its white and red stucco houses spread out over the rolling green hills and yellow forests of Italy like soft frosting. And you couldn't mistake it for anything other than Italian, not with the rustic architecture and heavily accented murmurs of the locals as they watched the boat slide up beside the dock and drop anchor. "It's lovelier than I expected."

"Not as lovely as San Giorgino," Corvo said, wandering onto deck to take in the view. "But it is quite pretty."

"I think your nostalgia for Renaissance Italy is getting out of control." Kayla punched his arm playfully. "I hear you've been training Boris. Is he as fast as his mouth, or have you been wiping the deck with him?"

"A mixture of both." Corvo chuckled. "But he's very dedicated."

"That's like the worst thing you can say about somebody. Right up there with _he means well."_

" _Si, si._ " Corvo shot her an amused glance. "You know, you talk a big game for someone who's never been brave enough to take me on. Why haven't _you_ ever taken a turn cleaning the deck?"

"Because I learned most of my fistfighting skills from my ancestors, and they're not always cooperative, or well-timed." Kayla grinned sheepishly. "Sometimes I'm as good as you saw in our duel, and other times I'm totally useless. It just depends on how strong my Bleeding Effect is that day."

"Interesting." Corvo supposed it would explain why sometimes she seemed ready to jump right into open combat, and other times made excuses about having pulled a muscle. "Well, if you ever want to develop your own skills instead of relying on Evie's and Ezio's, I'd be happy to show you a thing or two."

"I might take you up on that." Kayla smiled wryly at him. "Just don't wipe the deck with me _too_ hard. I haven't taken a good hit in a while, and you might crush me into the floorboards."

"Noted."

"Morning, laddie boy!" Delilah called cheerfully to the dock worker waiting for her. She skipped down the gangplank to present her paperwork, and he flipped through it without really reading it, obviously disinterested. "I've got a few tourists with me hoping to see the villas, and some fish and biscuits in the back cargo hold. You can check 'em if you need ta, but it's all there, ain't it?"

"Sure, yeah, whatever." The worker didn't seem to care whether they were legal or not; he waved an idle hand, dragging from his cigar. "At your leisure, folks. Have a nice visit to Gardenia."

"Thank ye kindly." Delilah gestured to her passengers, who descended onto the docks. Kayla took the lead, gazing eagerly around at the beautiful village before them; the white brick streets were lined with statues, flower boxes and faded signs proclaiming restaurants, cobblers, fisheries. Boris and Yosof took in the view as they clambered down behind Kayla, discreetly brushing hands and sharing secret smiles. Corvo was next to make landfall, and Ben was last, hunched over and obviously uncomfortable. "Hey there, laddie, shoulders up now," Delilah said kindly. "You're in Italy now, ain't ye? That's got to be worth a little celebration."

Ben eyed her. Delilah stuck out her hand hopefully; he reached out with the air of someone about to touch a highly poisonous snake, shook it gingerly, and yanked it back quickly as though stung. But it was still leagues more social interaction than he'd ever shown to anyone else, and Boris couldn't help but gawk a little as Ben withdrew into himself again like a frightened hermit crab, hastily trailed after the Assassins and left the smirking smuggler behind.

"You're welcome, you ungrateful blighters!" she called after them, waving a meaty hand in farewell. "You better find that Piece of yours for all of us in the Brotherhood, ye hear me?"

Boris did a double take, shocked and wondering if he'd heard her correctly. But she had already melted into the ground, disappearing in an instant – just like an Assassin. He turned back to the group, his heart pounding, marveling at the knowledge that she had known who her mysterious passengers were all along. _She's one of us, too._

Kayla, meanwhile, was scanning the crowd. "We're supposed to meet someone here who can get us into the Basilica," she said. "They must be late, or hiding. Let's explore the village a bit, but no one go too far, okay? This isn't a vacation."

"Got it," Yosof said, and looped his arm with Boris's. "Come on, sweetie, let's go find a pasta place. We've been eating salty ship food for weeks, and I could use a good starchy meal."

"Sounds like a plan." Boris led him down the streets with cautious glances around, Yosof skipping merrily along beside him.

Kayla looked at Corvo and Ben. "What do you two want to do?"

Ben ignored her, staring at the ground, but Corvo offered, "I wouldn't mind seeing some of the villas. This place makes me miss my home."

"Of course. Let's go check some out." Kayla tromped down the road opposite Boris's, and Corvo and Ben followed, the former briskly and confidently, the latter with hesitant, nervous steps. "Remind me where San Giorgino is again?"

"Just outside Florence, not far from here," Corvo said. "I wonder if it still exists."

"It probably does, but I haven't checked." Kayla took out her phone and opened a map. "Let's see, here we are in Gardenia, and there's Florence a few hours east…"

"Oi, dipshits!"

The three of them whirled, and Kayla's mouth dropped open. "That _cannot_ be our contact," she said.

"I'm afraid he is," Corvo said. The man glowed yellow in his Eagle Vision, clear as a lantern. And yet he, too, couldn't help but stare.

For the man flouncing up to them and grinning like a wildcat was dressed in a sleek black jacket that hung open in the front, a smart top hat, and steel-toed boots that clicked merrily on the bricks as he neared – not unlike a certain British Master Assassin, Kayla thought, remembering what she had read of Jacob Frye and his admittedly peculiar fashion sense. But what on _earth_ this man was doing as their contact was beyond her, and yet again she questioned the seemingly incomprehensible judgment of her Assassin ally. What on earth had he been thinking with this one?

"G'day, you mighty fine asshats!" The man tipped his top hat at them with a beaming grin, apparently oblivious to their open stares. "And how might you all be doing today?"

He couldn't be real, Corvo thought faintly; surely no genuine person would make a conscious fashion choice as completely ridiculous as this one. "Just fine, thank you," he said. "Er, if I may ask, are you –"

"Yes ma'am, I'll be your carriage driver this evening." He laughed at his own joke. "Oh, but how terribly rude of me, I haven't even introduced myself and I'm half-French! My name is Raphael Leon Cartier, but you can call me _Le Tailleur_ – everyone does these days."

Kayla frowned, turning that over in her head. Why did that name sound familiar? And then she remembered Boris mentioning who had made his Assassin robes, and it clicked. " _You're_ Cartier?" she breathed, dumbfounded. "You make all the Assassin robes! I've heard of you!"

"Tut-tut now, we shan't get all talky about that here. Everyone could be listening, hm?" He gestured at a villa down the street. "Come now, let's find somewhere a spot more private to talk about our business. Do you like tea, any of you?"

"Earl Grey, thank you," Kayla said, following him with a look at the others that clearly said, _Can you believe this guy?_

 _No,_ Corvo thought, in a kind of silent, stunned disbelief. _I can't._ "Are you quite sure you're Cartier?"

"As sure as I could be!" He chuckled again at his own, strange sense of humor. "But yes, I am the great and powerful Oz you seek. Tell me, did I make any of your slippers?"

It took Corvo a moment to understand the question. "Not mine, I'm afraid," he said. "But you made the robes of a friend of ours. They're quite remarkable."

"Why, thank you!" He beamed with pride and opened the door of the villa, gesturing them inside. "They are lovely, yes? I'm sure I had quite the time making them."

"They're beautiful," Kayla said, entering the house and looking around with interest. It was immediately obvious that it belonged to a tailor, decorated as it was with sewing machines, fabric tomatoes stuck full of needles, and bolts of colorful fabrics and silks. "Do you live in Gardenia, or are you just visiting here for us?"

"Just visiting for you, I'm afraid," Cartier said cheerily, heading into the kitchen and fetching a box of tea bags. "I live in Paris at the moment."

"Of course you do," Kayla chuckled. "Where else would a fashion designer live?"

"Not a fashion designer." Cartier gave her a wry look. "A designer of the most marvelous things in the world – Assassin's robes. It is a special skill passed down through generations, hm? I learned it from my mother, who learned it from her mother, who learned it from her father, and so on."

"That's amazing," Kayla said. "It's like a family legacy."

"Indeed it is, and I'm rather proud of it, if I say so myself. Now, you said Earl Grey? What do you take, my two lovely mysterious men?"

"Nothing for me, thank you," Corvo said. He had never accepted food or drink from strangers since the incident with his sister. "Or for Ben."

"Oh, now that's a shame. Tea is for everyone, isn't it, hm? But it's your choice, I suppose." Cartier began preparing a cup of tea for Kayla. "Now tell me, Assassin friends of mine, what is your business here? Why was I sent here?"

"We were told you could guide us to the Piece of Eden," Kayla said. "You claimed you could get us into the Basilica after dark."

"And indeed I can, my dear woman. I never make promises I can't keep." Cartier headed back into the living room and offered Kayla her tea. "For you, _mon cher_."

"Thank you." Kayla accepted the cup and stirred it around. "So what's the plan? How are we going to get the Piece of Eden?"

"Well, it's very simple," Cartier said cheerfully. "I kill all of you and take it myself."

There was exactly one second of utter, ringing silence.

Then Kayla dropped her teacup, and it shattered on the floor as she drew a knife out of her belt and pointed it at him. "You're not Cartier."

"Of course not! What on earth would that miserable fairy be doing in a place like this, hm?" The Templar cackled with glee, as though delighted by some private joke, but now Corvo understood his odd, disjointed speaking pattern and gleaming eyes; there was madness in that gaze as he surveyed them, a crazed, wicked smile spreading across his face. "Oh, but this is wonderful, isn't it? You've been so kind as to tell me where your lovely Piece of Eden lies, so now I get to tear out your insides and make little scarves out of them to show the Red Crow. He'll be so _very_ pleased with me, hm? I can't _wait!"_ He uttered a loud, insane laugh that made all of them step back in terror; he was clearly completely unhinged. "Ooh, who's going to die first, hm? Hm? Come at me, little Assassins, come right along at me and see how long you survive against the mighty Wizard of Oz!"

 _Boris and Yosof,_ Corvo thought frantically. This was all his fault for letting the two Assassins go off alone, and in all likelihood they were being stalked by Templars, too – if they had found Kayla, Corvo and Ben, they most certainly knew Boris and Yosof couldn't be far away. And Ben was here, and he couldn't fight – how was he going to protect them all? _I have to kill this psychotic Templar first,_ he decided. _Kill him first, then get to Boris before it's too late._

Kayla struck like a cobra, and the Templar ducked easily under it, guffawing. "Is that all you have, _mon cher?"_ he mocked, as Ben backed up fearfully in the background, registering the danger of this merrily laughing, completely insane man. "Ooh, come at me again! I'm ready for you, cutie-pie! Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" He turned as Corvo came at him from the side, blocking his first frantic strike but turning too slowly to defend himself as Corvo buried a steak knife from the kitchen in his abdomen up to the hilt.

For that one moment, Corvo felt a rush of triumph; he had won, he had killed him. But then he stared in horror as the madman gripped the knife's handle and pulled it out of him as though it was little more than a toothpick, blood dribbling from the wound and soaking the blade. He shook it off calmly, laughing at their horrified expressions. "Ooh, look at the little Assassins, aren't you all just _precious!_ Thinking you can beat me with your little sticks and stones! _Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!_ "

And he struck violently at Kayla with the bloody steak knife, over and over, quick and merciless. Kayla was almost too slow to defend herself, throwing up a desperate parry for each rapid strike; knife screamed on knife, and the Templar's final attack glanced away, but tore at her sleeve as it went, too close for comfort. She barely managed to block the next strike, gritting her teeth as it traveled up her arm and rattled her bones; he was just rearing back for another blow when a teacup shattered against his head, spraying hot tea all over him.

Snarling, he whirled on Corvo, who was in the kitchen hurling cups and plates and cutlery at him – some of them shattered harmlessly against the wall, but others slammed into him and tore his face apart, giving him a ghastly, cut-up sneer like a vengeful revenant. "Oh, so that's the game we're playing?" he hissed, and charged forward with the mad speed of a bull; Corvo barely managed to dive aside as he slammed into the kitchen counter and wheeled for a fresh charge, blood dripping from his hundreds of tiny wounds and the gaping hole in his stomach. He bared his bloody teeth at Corvo, spitting out a red glob. "You think you can beat a wizard?"

"No, but I can beat a man," Corvo said, watching Kayla climb slowly up the counter behind him, brandishing her knife in one hand. _Keep him talking, keep him talking, play into his delusions._ "Are you the man behind the curtain, Templar?"

"Heh." He grinned a blood-red smile. "You wish, little Assassin. You wish –"

Kayla pounced like a wildcat, landing on his shoulders and driving the knife up to the hilt in his neck – _not a bad aerial assassination,_ Corvo thought admiringly. The wounded Templar screeched like an angry animal, clawing at her as she dismounted and backed away, still aiming the dripping knife at him threateningly. "You're dead," she said. "Admit it, you lunatic. You're finished."

He managed a furious grin, clutching at the gushing wound in his neck; by now half the kitchen was spattered with blood, including Corvo and Kayla, but Corvo could see nothing else but the dying man before him. "Not me, Kayla Giordano," he said. "Not when I've got her on my side."

And to their abject horror, he let his hand fall away from his neck so they could see the skin already knitting shut, muscle and tendon and veins flowing smoothly back together like water.

"Holy _shit,"_ Kayla breathed. She had never seen anything like it before. "You – you're –"

"Surprised, little baby Assassins?" He spat blood at them, smiling insanely. "I said you couldn't defeat me. I'm the Wizard of Oz, and you're just little Dorothy looking for her slippers."

"What are you?" Corvo breathed. "Who is this being who gives you this power?"

The madman smiled coldly, and in that fleeting moment he looked and sounded perfectly sane. "She's the one behind the curtain."

Corvo felt a chill slither up his spine. "Kayla," he said softly. "We're dealing with something we don't understand. We need to run, _now."_

"But he knows where the Piece is," Kayla said, despairingly. "We have to kill him, or he'll get there before us. We –"

"Who cares about that? We need to run, _NOW!"_ Corvo grabbed her wrist, ignoring her yells of alarm, and dragged her bodily out of the kitchen, hearing the gore-soaked, lunatic Templar start to run after them. "Ben, _come on!"_

Ben, who had been hiding in the corner for the fight, scrambled up to follow them, obviously terrified; they sprinted out of the villa as though it was on fire, and the crazed Templar ran after them, screeching with mad laughter. "Run, little monkeys!" he howled gleefully. "Run, run away! The Wizard of Oz is coming for you!"

"Holy shit, he is fucking _bonkers,"_ Kayla managed between gasps of air, running down the streets beside Corvo and dragging her terrified brother behind her. "What could have made him completely goddamn lose it like this?"

"Whatever it is, I think we're dealing with something very, very dangerous, and we have to get away from him _fast_." Corvo had a hunch, but he didn't dare say it, not when there were so many implications… "We need to find Boris and Yosof and lose this psycho – we obviously can't kill him, not with the weapons we have. Even if he can get into the Basilica, he won't be able to get past the traps we set for the Templars all those years ago, so we'll have time to get there before he finds the Cloak." _At least, I hope so,_ he thought, praying that Ezio's ingenious designs would be able to hold the Templars off until they arrived.

They heard yells of alarm behind them as the villagers took notice of the bloodsoaked man running through the streets waving a steak knife, and then the Templar's voice faded away into the distance; Kayla turned just in time to see a gaggle of policemen run down the street with their batons drawn, and then stop, bewildered, at the Templar's seeming disappearance into thin air. But his mocking voice lingered in the air, faint and smug: "You can run, little Dorothy, but I know where you're going! I'll see you blokes at the Basilica!"

"Oh, Jesus," Kayla panted, slowing down to catch her breath. "Corvo, what the hell just happened? Who was that guy? Did you see what I saw?"

"I saw it." Corvo's mind was reeling, trying to understand what was going on. "Let's find Boris and Yosof before we do anything else. They might be in trouble."

"Right." Kayla took off again, and Corvo hurried after her. "What are we going to tell them? They'll think we're crazy if we tell them the truth."

"What, that an off-his-rocker, self-healing, psychotic madman Templar with a truly bewildering fashion sense chased after us with a bloody steak knife?" Corvo shook his head. "I'm sure he's heard stranger."

"I certainly haven't," Kayla said. "He's going to think we did drugs in that villa."

But when they finally caught up to Boris and Yosof, and were relieved to find them safely enjoying a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, the Assassins listened in mixed awe and horror as they told the story. "He called himself the _what now?"_ Yosof asked.

"The Wizard of Oz," Corvo said wearily. "And he kept talking about some woman behind the curtain. I'm not sure what to make of it."

Boris's eyes widened, and he looked hastily down at his plate.

"What?" Corvo asked, noticing. "Do you know what he was talking about?"

"…Maybe it's nothing," he said at length. "But a female presence tried to control me a while back, and make me kill innocents. I only fought her off with the help of one of my ancestors." _Who is being very cagey about revealing himself,_ he scolded the little British voice in his head, who radiated smugness in return. The nameless ancestor had never left him since the incident, always sitting quietly in the back of his mind and watching things unfold in calm silence.

Corvo frowned. "What do you mean, control you? As in an Apple of Eden?"

"No, it wasn't like that. I can't really explain, but… maybe it's related to this mysterious woman your killer Templar was going on about."

"Maybe so." Corvo closed his eyes, pondering. There was an answer, but he refused to accept it. He didn't dare imagine that could be the case. "We'll have to be quick now. The Templars know the Cloak of Eden's hiding place, but they hopefully won't be able to get inside – they don't have our Eagle Vision, or our knowledge of the traps. We need to get there before they do. I can use my memories to guide us through the catacombs and disarm the defenses."

"And then what?" Kayla asked. "Even if we get there in time, we've still got a mostly-invincible Mad Hatter to deal with. How are we going to stop a self-healing juggernaut who took a steak knife to the neck and lived?"

"I don't know," Corvo admitted. "But there has to be some way to kill him. Nothing is unkillable, not even a god."

"A god?" Boris echoed. "Surely we're not up against one of those."

 _We might be,_ Corvo thought grimly, and his mind slid back to a different time, a day in the Assassin archives when he opened the wrong scroll and learned a secret he would never forget. _We just might._

His thoughts returned to that exchange with the mad Templar, those small little words.

 _Who is this being who gives you this power?_

And that soft, simple reply that chilled his bones.

 _She's the one behind the curtain._


	9. Gears and Clockwork

_A/N: I think I'll make a pattern of writing author's notes – it's kind of a fun way to communicate with my readers. I've been enjoying reading all your reviews, and I'm taking all your positive and constructive feedback to heart. Thank you for all of it! Today's chapter is kind of a backstory interlude chapter before the main event at the basilica, so it's a bit slow, but I always wanted to tell the story of how Boris and Yosof met and how Corvo encountered his Mentor, so here you go. Enjoy!_

It was times like this, when everything seemed bleak and there was no way they could win against their enemy, that Boris liked to think about how he first met Yosof. It was one of his few happy memories, the glowing little chink of sunlight he clung to in his darkest moments – and having the Templars on the verge of seizing a precious Piece of Eden while they raced desperately to stop them, with an invincible madman and a dangerous psychopath trying to kill them and a thousand to one odds of getting there before they did, certainly qualified as a dark moment.

The memory began, as it usually did, with pain. He had just escaped from his uncle again, plowing his blind way through the snowy village streets with no real sense of where he was going, just wanting to get away. His arms and chest smarted from a fresh beating, maps of rainbow bruises from fists and hilts, the "training" that always felt more like sudden, sadistic assaults than any real Assassin preparation. His mind was blank and fervent with need, wanting badly to just find a place to hide and curl up into a ball and cry where his uncle couldn't see him break. He was _never_ supposed to break, because that just made the attacks and emasculating mocking worse.

His uncle's voice echoed in his mind: _Are you crying, you sorry little pansy? Is that what you're going to do when the Templars come after you? I'll give you something to cry about!_ Boris shivered and tightened his fur coat around himself, pushing his way into the first shop he could find, a watchmaker's. He sat heavily down in a chair in the waiting room, catching his breath. His chest radiated pain like a hot sun, and his arms prickled with white needles – _everything_ hurt, and he rested his head in his hands, taking slow, steadying gasps of air and trying to banish his uncle's snarling voice from his mind. He just needed to _breathe…_

"Are you all right?" a voice ventured.

Boris looked up. A woman had just emerged from the back room, and was now staring at him as though unsure if she should talk to him or call the police. "I'm fine," he said hastily, wiping his face with his sleeve; those were snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes, he told himself, not tears. "I'm here to buy a watch, I promise. I've just had a long day."

"Oh." She visibly relaxed; she must have thought he was a madman escaped from the local asylum. "Well, that's fine, then. Take your time."

"Thank you." Boris sat there for a few moments longer, taking slow breaths and gathering his bearings; the woman went back to her desk and resumed filing paperwork, but kept glancing over at him from time to time, as though making sure he wasn't up to anything. He finally rose shakily from the chair and approached the desk, figuring he might as well browse since she'd been kind enough to let him stay. "Can I take a look at your wristwatches?"

"Of course." The woman hastened over to open the display case, taking out a shining array of watches. "Here are our best pieces. You can try them on, if you like, but I'm warning you – I was a quarterback in high school. Cut and run, and I'll have you down on the floorboards before you can say _ouch_."

"Noted." Boris gently lifted a beautiful silver watch from the casing, snapping it onto his wrist. It did look nice, shining prettily in the sunlight. "I like this one."

"That's a good color for you," she agreed, reaching out to adjust the fit. "It's a bit loose, but I can remove or add links if you buy it. That model starts at fifty thousand rubles."

" _Wow."_ Boris hadn't realized watches were that expensive. "Er – I might have to pass on that. It's a bit out of my budget."

"Well, we have some more affordable options." She took the silver watch off his wrist and laid it delicately back in the padding, then put the expensive case back and switched it for a lineup of plain brass and bronze watches. "These go for around thirty-five thousand. Five hundred American dollars."

"…Anything cheaper?"

She laughed. "Only if you want a piece of shit."

"I could use a piece of shit."

"Well, in that case." She took out a cheap cardboard box, showing him a few dinged-up copper watches. "These are damaged returns. I'll sell one to you for thirteen thousand rubles. Two hundred bucks."

"I'll do five thousand for the scratched-up one." Boris showed her one with a massive gash across the dial, making the numbers barely readable. "This is your worst one, and it's all I've got."

"Ten thousand. That's the lowest I can go and still keep the lights on."

He sighed and put the watch back. "All right. But don't say I didn't try."

"Hold on!" A man suddenly burst from the back room, darting up to the counter. "Do we have a customer? I didn't even hear!"

"That's because you've got stone ears." The woman whacked him upside the head, and he yelped in pain, rubbing his cheek. "If I hadn't been here, he could have nicked our entire display case. Keep a closer eye on the counter, you hear me?"

"Yes, boss," he said with a laugh in his voice; clearly this was a running joke of theirs, and she hadn't hurt him that badly. He smiled at Boris. "Nice to meet you, stranger. Are you interested in a watch?"

 _No,_ Boris thought faintly, _I'm interested in something else._ Because this watchmaker was gorgeous, beautifully curvy with soft, copper-colored skin and warm brown eyes. His voice was lilting and smooth, touched with a melodic Indian accent, and his clever watchmaker's fingers were playing with the grooves of the counter, even though Boris thought suddenly they would look very nice playing with something else entirely –

 _Oh, Jesus, stop it, you._ With great effort, he managed to shake himself out of his fawning haze, but the damage had already been done. _So much for my heterosexuality,_ he thought with a mixture of amusement and dismay; his uncle would be spitting mad if he learned that not only was his nephew far from Assassin material, but was also pining after some village boy – not to mention hiding a copy of Brokeback Mountain in his mattress. _I can't let myself go after a man, not right now,_ he told himself firmly. _I am a perfectly normal, incredibly straight man, and an Assassin. And that's how it has to stay. Forever._

He forced himself to tear his gaze away from the man's mesmerizing eyes, and just barely remembered how to form words again. "I'm on a bit of a budget."

"I'll leave you two to haggle, then." The woman smiled, patting the man on the shoulder as she left. "And I'd better see a deal on my ledger later, you hear me?"

"Will do, boss." The man grinned at Boris. "Looks like it's just you and me. Did you see our returns bin? Our finest pieces, truly." He rummaged around in the box, lifting out a gold watch that looked like it had been run over by a train. "They just need a bit of love and shoe polish. But that's all anyone needs, isn't it?"

"I suppose so." Boris was trying very hard not to stare at him, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the watches. "How much do you want for that silver one in the display case?" It was the one he had first tried on, and he had loved the way it looked on him. It was so far above his budget, but maybe if he scraped together some of his savings, talked him down –

"I'll give it to you for free." The man smiled, and Boris's heart almost strangled itself at how beautiful his smile was. He wanted to scream at his smitten little Assassin soul that no, he couldn't do this, this wasn't how things should be and he needed to stop pretending they ever could. "Just for visiting."

"You don't have to," Boris tried weakly, but the man was faster. He fetched the watch from the case, then took Boris's wrist in his beautiful, slender fingers and started clasping the silver watch onto it, his touch warm and gentle. His hands were so soft, delicate and agile from watchmaker's work, and Boris almost felt ashamed of his own thick mitts, calloused from a hundred fistfights and punching bags. "You really don't have to give it to me," he said, as the man changed the time on the dial and carefully checked the links for scratches. "It's so expensive…"

"My treat," the man said, and winked. "I'm Yosof, by the way."

 _Oh, Christ,_ Boris thought. This was really not how he had meant for this day to go. But he found his traitorous mouth saying words anyway, betraying him in a heartbeat. "Boris."

"Interesting name you've got there." Yosof adjusted the watch, then began polishing the links with his sleeve, making it shine even brighter. "I have to say, this looks gorgeous on you. I'd almost think it was made for you."

"I can pay you for it," Boris said. "In installments, but –"

"Oh, shush. Let me treat you." Yosof stepped back to admire his handiwork. "There we go. You look like a proper gentleman now."

"I'm hardly a gentleman," Boris said. He hadn't meant for it to sound naughty, but Yosof grinned devilishly.

"Well," he said, "I suppose every accessory needs a handsome thing to accessorize."

Oh, he was definitely flirting. Boris couldn't help but grin back, enjoying the game – but at that moment his bruises twinged, and he remembered why he'd come here in the first place. "I should go," he said hastily. _Before my uncle shows up._ "Really."

"Are you sure?" Yosof's mouth twitched. "Well, if you want to meet up later, I'll tell you my address. Drop by if you want, and maybe I'll resize that watch of yours."

Somehow Boris had a feeling he wasn't talking about the watch. He blushed, and Yosof laughed, clearly triumphant that he had made this stoic stranger both completely off guard and very confused about his sexuality. Then the watchmaker flounced off into the back room like a playful forest sprite, humming, leaving a bewildered, aroused and thoroughly frazzled Boris behind.

 _No,_ he told himself firmly, as he left the store with a shiny new silver watch on his wrist and a fresh glow of forbidden happiness in his heart. _No, you are not going over there, that is a temptation you don't need right now. Your uncle will come to find you any minute now, and drag you back, and it'll be like none of this happened. You can't do this._

He nodded, stolid in his decision. He wouldn't give in. He told himself he wasn't going to do it as he went to the grocery store and picked up a bottle of Sauvignon and two wineglasses (for himself, of course), then to the barber's to get a haircut and a shave (for his own benefit, of course), and finally to the white house with the red pickup truck out front, where he stepped up to the bluebird doormat and knocked twice.

He waited, shifting nervously. Part of him wondered if this was a trap set by his uncle, to test if he really was – but no, that would be silly. And yet his heart clenched when he heard footsteps approaching the door, and then it opened and Yosof peered out, his warm brown eyes lighting up at the sight of Boris waiting there.

"You came!" He held it open so Boris could enter, clearly trying to contain his excitement. "Oh my God, I thought you might have just been teasing me. I haven't invited someone over in a long time. Come in, come in!"

"I brought wine," Boris said, offering him the bottle and glasses. Yosof took it happily, scrutinizing the label.

"Ooh, this is a good one." He set it on the dinner table, then, seeing Boris linger nervously in the entryway, "You can take your shoes off, you know."

"Er – right." Boris hastily dusted snow off his boots and took them off, setting them beside Yosof's neatly organized stacks of loafers and dress shoes. "You'll have to forgive me. I don't normally do this, either."

"That's okay." Yosof grinned. "First date?"

"First date," Boris admitted. He'd never had a chance to get out much, and the ones he had ventured to be coy with usually didn't get what he was hinting at or weren't interested. _I'm probably terrible at flirting,_ he thought wearily, but decided to ponder his pickup abilities another day. "Is that all right?"

"Hey, nothing wrong with that." Yosof smiled. "We don't even have to do anything, if you don't want to. Come on, let's have dinner."

The watchmaker had cooked, as it turned out, and cooked magnificently. His pork chops and orange marmalade biscuits were the best Boris had ever tasted, and he dug in eagerly, trading cheerful banter with the laughing Yosof. "You know, this is the one dish I can make," Yosof confessed, after taking a sip of Boris's wine and nodding approvingly. "I'm completely useless at pasta and cake and everything else. But I can nail a plate of pork chops."

"Because I definitely made that wine myself," Boris chuckled, cutting into his meat. "The biscuits are excellent, too."

"Thank you. That's my dad's old recipe." Yosof downed the rest of his wine, then looked at Boris's glass, which was long since empty. "You drink faster than me."

"I like my wine." Boris poured himself another glass for emphasis. "Don't worry, I can hold my own. I assure you I won't be staggering drunk around your house by midnight."

"Good to know." Yosof raised his glass playfully. "To awkward first dates."

"To first dates," Boris agreed, toasting him.

Before long the plates were clean and the glasses were empty, and from there neither of them seemed quite sure what to do with themselves. They looked around the house for a while before Boris finally ventured, "Do you like dancing?"

Yosof perked up at once. "I love dancing!"

"I hope you've got iTunes." Boris rose, dusting off his coat, and Yosof popped up and darted into the living room, returning with a stack of records.

"I've got better." He offered Boris a selection. "Pick your poison."

"You do _not_ still have a record player." Boris flipped through the records, awed; he had Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, Schubert, and everything in between. "I can't believe this."

"Are you impressed or sad for me?" Yosof laughed. "It's okay to say it. I'm kind of lame."

"Not in the slightest." Boris picked out a record and led him into the living room, where a record player stood waiting. He arranged the disc carefully and put the needle down, and a beautiful, waltz-like melody started to play. "How's this?"

"Glinka's _The Lark_ ," Yosof admired. "Good choice."

Boris offered him a hand. "I'd like it even better if you danced to it."

Yosof took it, beaming. They slow-danced in the living room to the soft, lilting strains of _The Lark,_ tentative at first, then with vigor; Yosof's steps were careful and precise, obviously ballroom trained, while Boris's light Assassin footwork was made for quick, frenetic dancing. Together they were a perfect pair, moving each other around the living room with graceful certainty and making music with the floorboards, and for the first time in a long time Boris forgot everything – the Assassins, the torment, the farmhouse – and just let himself _be._ The moment seemed to last forever, like it would never end.

And then the music trailed off, and Boris found himself leaning slowly into Yosof, letting himself get a little closer. They looked at each other, and Boris wondered why he had ever denied himself this, why he had forgotten how to feel.

"You're good at this," he said. "Dancing, I mean."

"I have a lot of practice." Yosof chuckled. "And by that, I mean I dance with a mop in the kitchen."

"Close enough."

They stayed there for a while, swaying gently back and forth across the floorboards to the music in their hearts, and all the while Boris tried to figure out what he was going to do now. If he stayed the night, there was always the chance his uncle would barge into town at three in the morning interrogating everyone, trying to find his nephew. He would talk to the owner of the grocery store, who had seen Boris buying wine; he would talk to the barber, who had cut Boris's hair. And eventually he would talk to the head watchmaker, who would tell him all about Boris and a silver watch he had liked and how he seemed to take even more of a fancy to – no, it was too great a risk, and Boris knew it. He couldn't stay here.

Hating himself for leading the man on like this, he let go of Yosof's waist. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't do this. It would put you in too much danger."

"What?" Yosof's face fell; he looked so crestfallen that Boris almost apologized right then and there. "No, you can't leave! I haven't met anyone like me in so long. I thought maybe we had something…"

"I'm sorry," Boris said again, wishing he could explain but unable to find the words. "You're wonderful, and I want to do this, but I can't let anyone find out about it. I could never do that to you. I have to go."

Yosof looked heartbroken. "Is someone after you?"

"I – something like that. I can't – if they found out about you…" Boris trailed off hopelessly.

Yosof sighed. "It's okay. I understand. Just…" He brushed Boris's hand softly, one last touch. "Take the watch. To remember me by."

"I will." Boris touched the watch, the warm silver dial and its quietly ticking hands. "I will."

He made his slow, regretful way back to the farm after that, just to spare his uncle the bother of having to find him. His uncle didn't punish him, didn't say a word, just pointed him into his bedroom and locked the door behind him. And lying there under the blankets that night, hating himself for living, he realized he couldn't take his eyes off the watch, the silver face that glowed like a familiar friend in the moonlight. The song was still stuck in his head, the softly trilling piano notes and the creaking, whispering floorboards on which their dancing feet had made a beautiful melody.

He stared at the watch for a long time. Then he rolled out of bed. He unlatched the window, picking the five separate locks easily the way his uncle had taught him – and the way a few choice books under his bed had taught him, since of course his uncle hadn't told him how to break _all_ the locks in his bedroom. He opened the window and climbed out, and he was free again, taking slow breaths of the cold winter air. Beautiful freedom.

And then he walked the long walk back to the village, feeling the silver links of the watch grow ice-cold on his wrist. He walked all the way back to the white house with the pickup truck and the bluebird doormat and knocked on the door.

There was a long pause; presumably he'd woken Yosof up. Then the door creaked open, and the familiar brown eyes peered through cautiously. And then, seeing Boris, they widened, and the door flew open like a shot. Yosof stood there in his nightclothes, apparently stunned; he must have thought he'd never see him again. "Boris?"

Boris grabbed his collar and kissed him fiercely. Yosof stiffened in surprise at first, then relaxed, melting against Boris as if they had been made for each other, like a watch to a wrist; they kissed in the moonlight, snowflakes landing gently in their hair. When they broke apart, they stared at each other for a long time, and in that moment a thousand unsaid things passed between them; and then, without saying another word, Yosof seized him by the shirt and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind them. And then there was quite a bit more than kissing.

"That's a cute story." Corvo chuckled. "You tell it well."

"I like telling it." Boris smiled, looking over at Yosof, who was busily checking his phone for directions to the basilica. "Ever since that day, he's meant everything to me. The world, and the stars, and everything in between. I never want him to forget that."

"I suppose it's my turn to tell a story, then." Corvo cleared his throat. "The story of how I met Ezio Auditore da Firenze."

"Yes, tell it!"

Corvo and his sister, Mila, had grown up in a pleasant household, at least as far as San Giorgino was concerned. It was a little villa in the center of town, the one his sister would later inherit after their parents' death, to Corvo's mock-annoyance – he was the man of the family, after all. But his parents had always made sure to treat the two of them equally, giving them the same deciding power, the same birthday presents, and even the same amount of inheritance, and this was an attitude that instilled Mila Bottitelli with the independent spirit she took to her grave. No matter what, she always insisted that she was just as good as any man, as skilled as any male Assassin could be, right up until the Order told her she'd never be anything more than a courtesan. That decision would lead to her frustration and eventual turn to the Templar Order, and Corvo knew the rest of the story all too well – it culminated in that day he would never forget, the day he had assassinated his own flesh and blood and held her while she died.

But Corvo had always been drawn to the Assassins from the start, their ideals of freedom and will and defending the innocent. His mother had told him the stories, the tales of the men who were eagles, and so, not knowing what was to come, he had started following the stories of the white-cloaked vigilantes who freed strongholds from Templar control, hoping that someday he could join their ranks. He watched them jump across chimneys and windowsills, awed by their mastery of parkour, and listened, fascinated, to the stories of their combat prowess and dangerous gifts. They had weapons that hid in their sleeves, people said, and a vision that could see through walls. There were so many rumors he didn't know what to believe, and he would never have guessed that most of them were true. He wanted so badly to be one of them, to be a part of the great war for freedom.

And yet he knew in his heart that he would never be able to join them. For, in the infinite cruelty of fate, he had been born with a weak right leg, the bones like a frail branch that gave him a slight limp and could only support him for so long before he had to sit down and rest. He had already broken it twice by the time he was sixteen, and it caused him no amount of pain when he walked; trusting it with his weight for too long made it ache like a hellfiend, and left him struggling along like a beached fish looking for water. But he refused to walk with a cane, no matter how much his family begged him to. He hated feeling weak, being treated like an invalid despite his other limbs – and, for that matter, his brain – being perfectly functional. It wouldn't have mattered for any career except being an Assassin, that high-stakes world of protecting the meek and destroying the corrupt. How could he run across rooftops with a limp? How could he make a speedy getaway with a quivering, uncertain ankle that twisted when he so much as climbed stairs?

It was this hatred of weakness that had stayed with him for the rest of his life, and made him so frustrated about his broken wrist and being stuck in a weaker, less capable body he didn't know what to do with. He needed to feel strong, and felt worthless if he didn't. It was one of the many things he had never liked about himself, but he always knew where it had come from – those days in his youth when people had talked to him in a baby voice and he had snapped back at them that he was fine, that he didn't need anyone's pity. That he _never_ needed anyone's pity.

And so he resigned himself to never being an Assassin, and only watching them from afar. But it wasn't until he met Ezio that he learned what being an Assassin truly meant –

"Hey, we're almost to the basilica," Kayla cut in. "Does everyone know the plan?"

"Shhh!" Yosof hissed back. He was listening to Corvo's story raptly, alongside an equally fascinated Boris. "I want to hear about Ezio!"

Kayla chuckled. "Okay, okay."

Corvo smiled wryly at his enthralled Assassin audience, and kept going.

It was raining the day he met Ezio Auditore da Firenze, a cold, sleeting rain that drenched him ice-cold. He was eighteen years old, on the verge of manhood but still not used to the feeling of stubble on his chin, and sitting in the streets outside his house, taking a break on the way to the marketplace. His leg had started to ache again on the way, and he needed to sit down for a while. He watched passersby glide by, laden with their groceries and children and lives, and wondered if he would have children of his own someday. But of course he would never find a woman, not with this leg of his. He looked at it bitterly, wishing not for the first time that he was a powerful Assassin and not a miserable invalid.

And then, when he looked up, he saw him – a flicker of white and red in the crowd, the briefest flash of a cloak. He gasped, recognizing the cut of the robes, that sharp, birdlike hood. Could this be – but then he was gone, and the crowd was milling about again, everyone attending to their business as usual. It was as though no one had even seen him.

 _But I saw him._ Corvo's heart pounded softly. _Who was that?_ The way he had moved softly through the crowd, vanishing in the flutter of an eyelash, was unlike anything Corvo had ever seen. _Could he be…_

"You there. _Ragazzo."_

He looked up, blinking. Two men in armor were glaring down at him, one with a hand on his sword. "Tell me, boy," one of them said. "Have you seen a man in white and red robes around these parts?"

"No," he said at once; something told him he needed to lie, despite the thrill it sent through him to lie to two heavily armed, very angry-looking men. "I haven't." He wondered if the white robes meant the man was an Assassin, and then realized with a start what that meant – that these men were…

"Don't lie to us, boy. We know he's been here." One of them drew his sword, placing the tip under Corvo's chin. Corvo's heart dropped into his feet at once, his heart slamming frantically against his ribcage; the cold steel bit gently into his Adam's apple, and for one long, breathless moment he forgot how to breathe. Oh God, he was going to die. This was the end. "Tell us where he is, you little urchin."

"I swear, I don't know," he said weakly. "Please, I haven't seen him –"

" _Buongiorno,_ my dear friends!" A lilting Italian voice rang out, and the Templars whirled. The man in the white and red robes was approaching, spreading his arms cheerfully, as though this was just an afternoon picnic and not a dangerous confrontation. "And what, may I ask, has this _uomo_ here done to you?"

" _Assassino!"_ The Templars fumbled for their weapons, but the Assassin was faster. In the blink of an eye he had thrust his arm forward, burying his Hidden Blade deep in one's chest; then, pushing him down to the ground with a spray of blood, he whirled on the second, kicking him in the stomach and jamming his blade down his throat.

Corvo watched, wide-eyed, as the two Templars flopped down dead, blood dribbling from the corners of their mouths and blooming across the front of their armor. The Assassin cleaned the blood off his blade, then smiled apologetically at Corvo. "My apologies. I did not want you to see that."

"You're an Assassin," Corvo breathed.

The man chuckled gaily. " _Si,_ that is right." He offered a heavily gauntleted hand. "Ezio Auditore da Firenze, at your service."

Corvo reached up to shake it, unable to hide his awe and respect. "It's nice to meet you."

"Why don't you stand, _signore?_ I'd like to get a look at you." Ezio chuckled. "If you already know about the Assassins, then perhaps I could give you a job or two."

Corvo's heart missed a beat. _He wants me to join the Assassins._ It was his dream, the thing he longed for so badly, and yet… "It's my leg." He looked miserably at the weak limb, and Ezio followed his gaze with curiosity. "It pains me to walk too much."

He expected Ezio to say something pitying, or ask him what was wrong with it, and all the other stupid questions Corvo had heard a thousand times before. But to his surprise, the Assassin reached down and seized him under the armpit, pulling him to his feet. Corvo stumbled and yelped in pain, his leg crying out when he set it down; but the Assassin gripped him tightly across the shoulders, letting him lean heavily on him. "Then I will be your leg, _signore,"_ Ezio said gently. "Come with me. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Corvo had never let anyone help him like this before, but there was something in Ezio's voice – that acceptance and warmth, not sympathy or pity – that made him limp slowly alongside the Assassin, letting Ezio help him walk. "I'm not strong enough. You don't have to recruit me," he tried, but Ezio was having none of it.

"Don't worry, _signore._ Every man can fight for the cause of freedom, and a man who is brave enough to lie to protect me is one I'd like to know better." Ezio adjusted his grip on Corvo's shoulders, smiling cheerfully at him. "But I don't believe I caught your name."

"Corvo Bottitelli di San Giorgino."

Ezio nodded approvingly. "A good name. I believe I know your sister. Mila, is it?"

"Yes, that's right." Corvo raised an eyebrow. "But when you say _know_ …"

"Oh, of course not, _signore._ I have a fondness for lovely ladies, but unfortunately I have not charmed your sister into my bed." Ezio winked. "Yet."

" _Mio dio,"_ Corvo groused, and Ezio burst out laughing, clearly delighted by his dismay.

"Don't worry, I'll leave her be. Unless, of course, she simply can't resist me. Then who am I to deny a lady her pleasures?" Ezio clapped Corvo merrily on the back. "But all in good time, _signore._ Tell me, how do you feel about horses?"

Corvo felt very strongly about horses. He'd been chased by one as a child, and had internalized a mild terror whenever they were around; but when Ezio introduced him to a lovely, chestnut-brown mare named Valore, he couldn't help but take a fondness to her. The horse would become his most steadfast companion, and it was she that Corvo rode to join the Assassin Order, with Ezio Auditore by his side.

His first day of training didn't go well. He stretched his arms and legs, readied himself to try his first bit of parkour, took one step, and collapsed, his leg screaming in agony. The other novices laughed uproariously, and later he learned that he had gained a nickname among the recruits, the Crippled Crow.

 _Fine,_ he thought, burning with anger but determined to fulfill his destiny. He wanted to show the world that Ezio Auditore had not made a mistake by choosing him. _Fine. You want to call me the Crow? I'll become it in spades._

He strapped his leg so tightly he could barely feel it, donned a black cloak, and threw away his regrets, and Corvo Bottitelli was born again. And this time no one would laugh.

From that day forward he was the Crow, and he fought for every scrap of skill he could get. He trained himself mercilessly, trained until his brace-wrapped leg was howling with agony and on the verge of crumpling beneath him, trained until his fists bled from striking and his arms ached from punching, trained until the world started spinning and he fell senseless to the floor. He ignored the laughter until it stopped, because suddenly the Crow was taking down opponents twice his size, swinging his metal-strapped leg like a battering ram to trip his foes and throw them to the concrete. The laughter turned into gasps of awe as he threw trained Assassins to the floor like rag dolls, broke stone with his fists, tore off the heads of dummies with fierce swings of his sword and filled every bullseye with throwing knives.

And finally the Crow stood before his last challenge, a building ready to be scaled. Here was the one thing he still hadn't mastered – climbing. He readied himself, feeling the blood pump through his bad leg, so tightly braced by this point that it was little more than dead weight. And then, in a moment of sudden decision, he tore off the brace and threw it aside, hearing the gasps from the watching novices.

And then he climbed like he had never climbed before. His leg never complained once as he jumped from sill to sill, lithe and graceful as a wildcat; dug his fingers into the wall and threw himself higher and higher, blood singing in his ears and pounding through his chest, until his feet suddenly connected with the rooftops. And there he stood, raising his arms in triumph as the Assassins below him cheered and clapped for the mighty Corvo Bottitelli, the Crow who had finally found his wings.

Ezio Auditore came to his dormitory that night, as he was staring at his leg brace and trying to decide if he should put it back on or not. "I hear you climbed your first building today," he said, folding his arms and looking at Corvo with wry approval. "What did you say was keeping you from being an Assassin again?"

"Nothing," Corvo said, rolling up his pant leg to show Ezio his new, thickly muscled legs. "Not a damn thing."

Ezio smiled. "I'm proud of you, _signore."_

"Me too." Corvo probed his bad leg thoughtfully – well, he could hardly call it bad anymore. "This one's still weaker than the other, of course, and a little twisted. I think it always will be. But I can walk now, and run, and climb, and do all the things I never thought I could do. And it's all because you believed in me."

"I saw the potential in you. But you had to find it – and you have." Ezio clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, Corvo. They're expecting you."

"Who is?" Corvo rose, following him curiously out of the dormitory and into the hallway. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see, _signore."_

Ezio led him to the clock tower, and they climbed it together, the night air brushing at their faces and whispering through their robes. Now Corvo knew what was going to happen, and his heart sped up when he reached the top and saw the Assassins in dark robes there waiting for him, one of them holding a poker, another holding a Hidden Blade.

The leader intoned solemnly: " _Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine._ These are the words spoken by our ancestors that lay at the heart of our creed. Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember."

"Nothing is true," Corvo recited, excitement pulsing through him. This was it. He was ready.

"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember."

"Everything is permitted."

"We work in the dark to serve the light. We are Assassins."

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," the group recited.

Wordlessly, the first man gestured to him. Corvo approached and held out his hand, gritting his teeth as the man dipped the rod into a brazier of hot coals and pressed the brand to his finger; he hissed in quiet pain as the Assassin insignia was seared into his finger. Then the second one strapped the Hidden Blade onto his arm, and the third said gravely: "Welcome to the Assassins, Corvo Bottitelli. May your mentor guide you in your quest."

 _My mentor?_ Corvo wondered. And then he saw Ezio, beaming with pride as he watched the ceremony, and his heart warmed. _My mentor._

"Take the leap now, Assassin." One of them gestured to the edge of the tower. "Your faith will catch you."

Corvo climbed onto the balcony, taking a deep breath of the night air. The lights of the city winked back at him, and below, far down in the darkness, he knew there would be a hay cart waiting for him. All he had to do was jump.

He took one more breath, then two, and then lunged out into the night sky, arms spread wide like wings. For one moment he was hurtling downward, in terrifying freefall – and then he slammed into the hay cart, and lay there senseless for a moment, gasping to catch the breath that the wind had torn out of him. _Mio dio,_ he thought weakly. _I did it._

And then he heard a yell from above him: "How was your trip, _signore?"_

"Just fine, thank you!" he hollered back, trying not to laugh. "You're ruining the moment, Mentor!"

"Sorry, sorry!" But Ezio grinned unapologetically, apparently delighted that he had completely destroyed the seriousness of the occasion. "Nice dive, by the way! Ten out of ten!"

"Ha, ha." Corvo clambered out of the cart, brushing hay off his robes. "Does this mean we're friends?"

"Hang on!" Ezio jumped off the tower, somersaulting neatly into the hay cart below with a loud _thump._ He popped out at once, obviously having done this many times before. "Yes, but you have to call me Mentor. I demand it from my servants."

"You're hysterical." Corvo smiled, falling easily into step alongside him as they headed out into the streets. "So what's our first mission?"

Ezio grinned back at him. "How do you feel about boats?"

"And the rest, as they say, is history." Corvo smiled at the awed Boris and Yosof, who had been hanging on his every word. "That is how I met my Mentor."

"Wow," Yosof breathed. "That's incredible."

"You've been through a lot." Boris looked at him thoughtfully. "How did you find the motivation to keep going, when everyone was laughing at you and thinking you could never do it?"

"I just kept going." Corvo shrugged. "Being an Assassin and proving myself to Ezio was all I cared about. I never once thought about quitting."

Boris mulled over this as they headed down the street towards the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, towards the final battle that awaited them.


End file.
